In Fits and Starts
by Marie Turtle
Summary: Abigail struggles to rebuild her life after English society rejects her, and certain blonde pirate can't seem to stay away. [Abigail Ashe/Billy Bones] *Originally posted on Ao3 under the "We've Got to Stop Meeting Like This". Some minor grammar/consistency changes have been made. Cover art by @sssoto
1. Chapter 1

"You have yet another mysterious letter, Abigail," Miss Margaret said, coyly laying the envelope on the tea table across from her new friend. She didn't miss the pink flush that warmed the other woman's cheeks or the way her golden eyes widened and brightened as she fought to present a composed response.

"Why thank you, Maggie," Abigail Ashe set her teacup down next to the letter before picking it up, each motion measured and timed to prevent her first inclination, which was to toss the delicate china cup to the ground and rip the parchment open as fast as she could so she could drink in every word on those pages.

Maggie smiled into her own steaming cup. She had the distinct pleasure of presenting these missives each time one graced their mail. The first one had found Abigail startled and confused, before she blossomed and exclaimed, "He wrote back to me!" The young Miss Ashe had quickly remembered herself and buttoned up tighter than shutters in a hurricane. Now, wheedling out information about her family's houseguest's elusive epistolary suitor had become one of Maggie's favorite pastimes.

"Mr. Smith must have quite the penmanship to keep you so enraptured every time one of his letters arrives," Maggie said, smoothing her skirts and enjoying watching Abigail squirm under the scrutiny. "You hardly even notice any of the fine young men of Savannah, despite their best efforts, and they're right here in town."

Abigail folded her hands neatly in her lap, refusing to touch the letter while Maggie watched her with that wicked gleam in her eyes. Miss Margaret, the daughter of yet another prominent family Abigail had been passed to, had almost overnight become her closest friend since her kidnapping. Slowly, Abigail had shared bits and pieces with the other woman, unsure of the response she might receive. Others, at even the slightest mention of pirates and Nassau and her shocking sympathies toward their plight, had generally recoiled in horror, turned back to their tea, admirably ignoring everything their now unwelcome guest said, or otherwise couldn't begin to fathom the girl. Here she was, ostensibly ruined by all that time with pirates, with Captain Flint and Lady Hamilton of all people (whom, Abigail had been shocked to discover, polite society deemed far worse than the likes of the vicious and lecherous Ned Lowe), her father killed, her pirate sympathies read aloud for the world to hear, and she still professed the same outlandish ideals. Publically, at that. She would be lucky to find any man willing to marry her (for her inheritance, of course, because no man would otherwise shame himself by taking on some ruined girl).

Maggie, however, had nodded and listened, truly listened. She listened the way Captain Flint and Lady Hamilton had listened to her. She did not dismiss her new acquaintance's wild ideas or shame her for her anger at her father. She understood Abigail's agreement that the pirates should be pardoned, that they were wrongly painted as monsters, even after the attacks on port cities began.

But there were things Abigail had yet to share with Maggie. She hadn't told Maggie about overhearing Lady Hamilton moments before she was murdered in her family's dining room, professing such rage as she did not know a proper lady could even feel. Within seconds, Abigail knew that rage for herself. She didn't tell Maggie that when Captains Flint and Vane launched their assault on Charles Towne, she had felt a measure of satisfaction on behalf of that kind woman. She had even understood Captain Flint's rage. Seeing the city crumble and its denizens in panicked fear had been like watching her own feelings on some kind of bizarre stage; a horrific play acting out all the fear and anger and hurt she'd built up in her own heart.

These were thoughts that she only shared, and only recently, with the man who so diligently replied to her correspondence despite their mutual agreement that they had no business writing to each other. At first, she had been angry. The man read her journal, took it, and arranged to have it read before a public court against her own father's testimony. After yet another host's horrified gasp at the slightest inclination that Abigail did not view James Flint as a monster, she had unloaded her burdens onto paper, and to the one person who had, unbeknownst to her at the time, already read her innermost thoughts and feelings and had still gazed at her with hopeful longing when he thought she didn't see him.

Mr. William Manderly was perhaps the only person left in her life who truly understood her. He knew what it was like to have your life ripped away by some scheming monster. He knew what it was like to have no home to return to. He knew what it was like to be judged by everyone who saw him, simply because of his manners, dress or just the implication that he might not be one of them. He was so smart and even educated. In another life, they certainly would never have been in the same social circles, but she might have known him as a successful merchant or even a representative to the House of Commons, with his keen desire to help other people before himself and improve the system, as he called it.

The quiet snickering brought Abigail out of her reverie, staring sightlessly at Billy's neat handwriting on the envelope, and she felt another rush of pink flooding her cheeks. She cleared her throat, "Well, Maggie, the young men of Savannah are perfectly nice, however, we both know they are interested in my purse strings and not my person."

Maggie sighed and rolled her eyes in an extremely unladylike fashion. "You don't give yourself enough credit, Abby. Besides," she leaned forward conspiratorially, "I think you only have eyes for one young man, who addresses himself as 'Mr. Smith.'"

Abigail hid her face behind a slow sip of cooling tea. "We are simply old friends who enjoy each other's correspondence."

"Hm," Maggie arched a skeptical brow and snatched the letter off the table. Abigail spilled a bit of tea jerking forward to stop her, before she collected herself and gently dabbed the small spill off the table with a napkin. "I've figured it out, you know," Maggie batted her eyelashes innocently at Abigail's paling face. "These letters arrive at such random times, and usually within days of another port attack. Almost like they were sent by a young man sailing on a boat, who can only post a letter when he arrives at port. Like, perhaps, a handsome and colossally large Quartermaster you told me about once."

Abigail blanched, all that pretty blush leaving her cheeks at once.

"It is!" Maggie squealed and jumped from her seat so she could practically collapse next to Abigail's stiff form on the loveseat. "Oh, my dear, I won't tell anyone, you know that," she smiled up at Abby, who relaxed only enough to let Maggie take one of her hands in her own.

Abigail watched her friend skeptically. She seemed so genuine, and thus far had been nothing but open and accepting of Abigail's situation. She relented. "You cannot tell a soul," she kept her voice low, in case anyone might be lurking the halls nearby.

Maggie mimed locking her lips with a key and then even tossing the imaginary key over her shoulder. She proffered the letter back to Abigail, with the stern order, "Now you _must_ read this and if you don't, I'll take it back and read it aloud. This is honestly so romantic I could scream."

"Oh, because screaming is just so romantic," Abby pursed her lips and took the letter back, running her fingers over the worn paper before gently breaking the seal.

"It is if you're doing things right," Maggie waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

The blush rushed back to Abigail's cheeks, this time encompassing her neck and ears. Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped open. "Margaret Sommers!" she gasped and Maggie bubbled over with giggles. She shot Maggie a cautioning look, but couldn't fight her smile at her friend's impropriety. She was, after all, opening a letter from a pirate.

Her heart sank as she soaked in his first lines. When they first started corresponding, and her first letter being notably formal, and perhaps a little scolding, his reply had been equally formal, but apologetic and insistent that she bring no risk upon herself by corresponding with a criminal. After that, their exchanges had grown increasingly familiar and warm, each time pouring a little bit more of herself onto paper for him and eagerly absorbing each detail he left of himself.

This letter, however, was particularly curt. Even cold. A frown furrowed into her face so distinct even Margaret sat up and took notice. Abby first thought that perhaps she had said something wrong to earn such a chilly reply, but as she read, her chest constricted and the blood left her head so rapidly she felt dizzy.

Abigail sat up with a start, rising to pace as she read and re-read the brief missive, unwilling to believe what she was reading and flummoxed as to what to do.

Maggie sat forward and reached her hand out to Abigail, pulling her to stop. "What is it? Is everything alright?"

Abby's eyes flew to her friend. "How…how many days does it take to sail here from Beaufort?"

"Beaufort?" Maggie blinked and then considered. "A few days, I'd imagine. Honestly, Abigail, you've spent more time aboard ship than I have. Why, is he coming to Savannah?"

Abby pulled away to continue pacing. She checked the date on the letter and the postmark. It had taken five days for this letter to reach her by land. Was that enough time for a large ship like a brigantine to sail here? At what speed could that ship travel? How much distance did a knot cover? All that time on the deck of the _Siren_ and she'd never bothered to learn. Stupid, stupid girl.

"Abigail!" Margaret was standing now, gripping Abby by her shoulders. "What is the matter?"

She held up the letter, grimacing and struggling to catch her breath against the all-too-restrictive corset under her dress. "He says he knows I have to alert the governor, and Captain Flint doesn't care. They're coming here, Maggie. He says we have to get as far inland as we can."

"He truly is on the _Walrus_ ," Maggie covered her mouth, her eyes turning to large green saucers.

"You said you knew!" Abigail's voice rose with her panic.

"I didn't really believe it!" Maggie's hands dropped to her side then returned to cover her worried face. "Alright, alright," Maggie regained a modicum of composure. "We know they don't always attack if the magistrate concedes to Captain Flint. And Captain Flint knows you and apparently Mr. Smith told him you'll be warning the town. I'm sure the Navy and the governor already know the ship could be coming this way any day now. Our fort is more defensible than some of these other towns, especially if they know an attack is coming."

A sickness rose up into Abigail's throat. Memories of people running and screaming, people crushed under falling debris, blood exploding out of gunshot and shrapnel wounds rushed through her mind. Then images of Billy, shot, stabbed, _hanged_ warred with her concern for the townspeople. She never wanted anyone to die, even if she understood Flint's reasons. Maggie was hopeful, but Maggie hadn't seen the sheer destructive force of that ship firsthand. She also hadn't seen what men were capable of doing to each other when they all believed the other was wrong.

Maggie watched her friend spiraling and took control. "Listen, we'll take a carriage to the magistrate's house right away, and tell him everything."

"We can't tell him everything!" Abigail was seized by panic. "If they know I've been corresponding with one of them, I'll go to jail. They'll make me tell them everything I know. They might even use me to trick Billy…"

Margaret pulled back, genuinely surprised. Her new friend had worked out every devious possibility the British government might cook up with this information in a matter of a breath. "Alright," Maggie continued slowly, "we'll tell him…ah! We'll tell him one of the pirates on Flint's ship fell in love with you and despite your lack of response, he periodically sends you anonymous letters. This is the first one with any information about their activities. And you panicked when you got it and burned it. He'll believe we are just that silly."

Abigail nodded, biting her bottom lip and considering the possibility. "Yes, that might work. But what if he doesn't believe me?"

Maggie smoothed Abigail's hair. "It's true, he might think we're silly girls stirring up nonsense, but you will have done what you needed to do. I think Mr. Smith, _Billy_ , wanted you to tell someone. He wouldn't have written to you otherwise."

Calmer now, mollified by Margaret's easy confidence, Abigail could feel her breath slowly returning to her tightly compressed form. "Will your family be alright here?"

"Oh, they'll be fine," Maggie waved a dismissive hand toward the inside of the house. "Mother and Father are staying in tonight, no plans for the week as far as I know, and we are well into the interior of Savannah. We're perfectly safe here. Now get your hat, we have a governor to visit."

"Whose house is across from the port, who will no doubt accuse of hysteria. What could possibly go wrong?"

* * *

It turns out, a lot could go wrong.

First, the carriage was broken and it took the stable hand several hours to get it serviceable. It was dusk when they arrived at the magistrate's mansion, and even later when he finally ended his dinner, his evening meetings and could properly receive his uninvited guests.

Abigail grew more anxious with each passing moment, knowing that Flint's attacks always commenced in the evening. If by chance they were already here, Flint and his men could be making their way to the house at any moment. If she and Maggie got caught in the crossfire, there was no telling what might happen.

Then came the magistrate's response. He had, as Margaret predicted, been largely unimpressed with their story and information. The Navy had already briefed him on the likelihood of an attack in the coming days, he'd already increased security around his own home and ensured that the fort was properly reinforced.

He was equally unimpressed with the young women. Apparently Margaret had quite the reputation for gossip, and of course, Abigail's ruined status and pirate sympathies had become well known.

"As far as I am concerned," the older man said crisply, "this is nothing more than the hysterics of young girls who have heard rumors about Captain Flint's attacks and perhaps wish for a little excitement in their lives. Perhaps even you, Miss Ashe, are hoping to restore some of your reputation by expressing concern over the welfare of Savannah and her citizens?"

Abigail watched the graying man in his brocade and calico, looking down his nose at them, and felt the indignant fury welling up in her chest. This was, quite possibly, a taste of the anger that James and Miranda had felt.

"Sir, please," Abigail restrained herself and tried to keep her voice as pleasant and unassuming as possible, despite her desire to scream as Lady Hamilton once had, "I know we must seem rather…silly," she chewed off the word that, in the course of a single evening, had grown so distasteful she could spit, "but I assure you this threat is quite valid. This man has never shared information like this with me. I believe -"

"I believe it is equally likely," he interrupted her without much thought, "that if this pirate is so infatuated with you as you say, and you have spurned his attentions, as you say, that perhaps he wrote something inflammatory in order to get your attention." He raised an expectant brow at her, his lips pressed into a firm line. "Ladies, please, leave the protection of Savannah to me. If you don't mind," he nodded meaningfully at the door, where a footman now waited.

Margaret was the first to rise, though Abigail remained seated, dumbfounded at this man's outright dismissal. These attacks had happened at port cities up and down the coast. Charles Town had burned, for God's sake. And yet he could sit there, so smug, with his hands folded over his belly, utterly content that she had said nothing of value, and had, in fact, wasted his time. "Abigail," Maggie said gently when she was safely away from the desk.

Abigail reluctantly joined her, still desperately searching for something, anything, else to say that might convince him. Maggie looped an arm through hers and whispered, "It's fine, Abby. Besides, what are the odds that tonight -"

She didn't finish that thought. Maggie abruptly stopped speaking when the shouts of guards and soldiers started echoing down the halls. Both girls pulled up short at the door and the rotund magistrate shouldered past them, demanding to know what was going on.

The crack of pistol shots rang out, inspiring quick, surprised screams from the women as Abby jerked Margaret back toward the heavy oak desk, hoping to find some measure of shelter there. They only made it to the center of the expansive room when the magistrate was shoved back away from the door by men in head-to-toe black wielding an array of pistols and swords and knives unlike anything Abby had seen since disembarking the _Siren_.

Both women screamed again when the French doors leading to the office balcony burst open in explosions of glass and black-clad pirates. They clung to each other, Maggie's cool exterior long gone, her fingers digging into the flesh of Abigail's arms, trying desperately to pull each other closer and away from the threat that seemed to emerge from all sides at once.

The black extended to menacing fabric wrapped around their heads and faces, revealing only their eyes, like some kind of bedouin raiders she'd read about in an illustrated book. The leader corralled the magistrate with a knife to the shorter man's neck. Behind them, a familiar throaty voice breathed, "Fuck me."

Maggie stayed focused on the leader, who ripped the fabric down covering his face, revealing a weathered complexion and reddish orange facial hair. "Billy, what the fuck is she doing here?" he barked at the giant towering behind them. The giant that had Abigail's full attention.

He was even taller than she remembered. His blue eyes flashed like the sea after a storm and even behind the mask she could see he was just as gobsmacked as she was. As he struggled to speak, Captain Flint snapped again, "Get them the fuck out of here, Billy!"

"This is Billy?" Maggie took the opportunity to point at the alleged " _Mr. Smith_ " whose size she had sorely underestimated. He shot her a furrowed look before pulling the scarf off his own face and jutting an impressively large hand out to Abigail.

"Miss Ashe, we have to go," he practically growled, as if he didn't want anyone else in the room hearing him address her. His eyes flashed around and back to the increasingly impatient Captain Flint, then he nodded meaningfully between Abigail and his outstretched hand.

When she finally took it, she felt the wind leave her lungs. With the exception of his brief assistance helping her into the longboat to depart the _Siren_ , she'd really never even touched the man. After just one time, which seemed so long ago, her tiny hand fit into his so neatly. It was calloused and warm and could crush her own in an instant. He could exert even a fraction more strength and force her to follow him, uncaring about the pain it would cause her. They truly needed to run, but he held her hand so gently as spun glass. Abigail had to catch her breath against the tingling sensation racing from her hand up her arm and coiling deep in her core.

His mouth went dry, drier than it had after he'd crashed through the glass and wood doors like some kind of animal and realized that one of the two women he'd sent screaming and cowering was Abigail, _his_ Abigail. He planned to thoroughly apologize for that later, but just right then he needed to get these women as far away from here as he could manage without being left behind by his own crew. But at this moment, he couldn't get his feet to move, not in any direction away from Abigail at any rate. In the candlelight, her cheeks had a rosy glow and her mouth was open just enough from exertion and trying to force oxygen past her corset to send him instantly spiraling into heady, lascivious thoughts about what those lips would look like after he thoroughly kissed her, or what they would look like _on_ him.

Not that he hadn't entertained these thoughts, and worse, since first laying eyes on the soft-spoken brunette, especially during those lonely hours in his hammock after his watch had ended. Once he first started receiving her letters, even the angry one, he'd hadn't thought of anyone else. He'd known she was smart, and kind, and witty, and independent of mind, when he'd first seen her on the _Siren_. Her journal had confirmed that, and now their correspondence - letters he read and re-read until his grimy, sailor's hands smudged the ink - reminded him every day that for some insane reason a no-account pirate like himself had caught the attention of a unique young lady.

But _now_ was not the time to stand there like an idiot trying to puzzle out why a beautiful, smart, successful, _proper_ lady was looking up at him with wonder and a smile tugging at her lips despite the utter chaos exploding around them. He blinked twice when he realized Flint had barked at him again, scowling in confusion and frustration at his first mate's sudden ineptitude, and his crew were moving to hold off another round of guards making their way to the office door.

He assessed the situation and determined there was only one safe way out. "This way," he said louder, pulling her gently along behind him and leading both ladies in what was for him a light jog back out the balcony the way he'd come in. Margaret pulled the brakes as they passed a felled soldier. Abigail and Billy both whirled in confusion until Margaret straightened up with a loaded flintlock pistol in one hand and a dirk in the other.

"You've shot before, right Abby?" She held the gun out to her friend, who gave a small nod in response and took it in her free hand. For the second time that night, Billy had to pause to truly take stock of the fact that Abigail Ashe continued to surprise him. Her friend could stay, too, as far as he was concerned.

"Right," he nodded and pursed his lips in appraisal, "there's a back stair this way."

The balcony wrapped around, as was the fashion for such a house overlooking the bay. From her vantage point behind Billy's near six-and-a-half-foot frame, she couldn't even see where he was leading them. She trusted him instinctively, though, as she had since he first sat down across from her at Flint's table.

He released her hand, gave them both a small "stay back" wave and rushed forward with more grace than a man his size ought to possess. Separated from him, Abigail could now see the two soldiers attempting to rush up the stairs and get to a place of cover before Billy got to them, but they weren't as quick as he was. Maggie and Abigail reached for each other, each jockeying to shield the other.

But it was unnecessary. Billy got to the men quickly, knocking one soldier's musket out of the way with his sword while simultaneously elbowing the other man across the jaw, which sent him tumbling over the rail at the top of the steps to the stone pavement below. The other soldier recovered himself enough to swing the butt of his weapon into Billy's chest, though he may have been aiming for Billy's face. Billy grunted and fell back a step, only to snarl and catch the next swing in his bare hand. They struggled for control of the musket until Billy released the hold he had with his sword arm and pulled the soldier in close while running his sword into the man's gut.

Maggie shrieked and recoiled, but Abigail covered her mouth to stop her own outcry at the sudden gore. Billy pushed the man off his sword and held out his hand again, which Abigail took without question. Whether he was unwilling to look at her in that moment, or simply entirely focused on moving the group safely away from the house, she couldn't be sure.

"This way!" Maggie suddenly called, recovering herself from the violence she'd seen. Outright insanity had spread like wildfire throughout the street. Flint's crew had made quick work of the soldiers guarding the port and the magistrate's home, and now his ship was firing unceasingly into the fort, sending stone and wood shrapnel raining in all directions. Other miscreants seemed to be taking advantage of the anarchy and distracted troops, breaking shop windows and assaulting men and women trying to escape. The Savannah port was a war zone. "The stables are through here!" She led them now at Billy's side under a large archway back toward the house.

The carriage was, by some miracle, still secure with the horses, though they appeared ready to run as soon as they were free of their yoke.

"It's too slow, no time," Billy ordered when he realized the women were inspecting the carriage to ride in. He was already cutting one of the horses free. With her dirk, Maggie mimicked his actions on the other horse, cutting away the breeching but keeping a firm hand on the animal's reins. Abigail watched the archway with her pistol held by two shaky hands. When a soldier rounded the corner and shouldered his musket, Abigail closed her eyes, gripped the weapon as tight as she could muster, and squeezed the trigger. The shot cracked around her ears and the smoke started to clear, she cautiously opened her eyes with a grimace. The soldier was on the ground, moaning and clutching his leg. She let out the breath she'd be holding in relief. She hadn't wanted to kill him. An impossibly large hand gently covered hers, lowering the weapon and then taking it away from her and dropping it callously to the ground. She looked over her shoulder to find herself nearly engulfed by Billy, standing over her and looking down at her with a mix of shock and pride. His full lips ticked up ever so slightly at the corners. "That was unexpected," his voice sounded more hoarse than she remembered, which could be the smoke, the exertion or just their nearness, she couldn't tell.

Maggie used the stable fencing to hoist herself onto the unsaddled horse she'd freed, petticoats and all. "You two are about bloody useless," she reined the horse around. "Let's go already!"

Billy started as if a spell had been broken. He eyeballed the horse and then Abigail's encumbering dress. He nodded at the decision he made in his own head and without asking, he wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her onto the horse as if she weighed nothing. "Up you go. Sorry about this, Miss Ashe."

Her skirts and petticoats bunched dangerously high over her knees. She had not dressed at all appropriately for an impromptu horseback ride. Billy threw a long leg over the back of the animal and seated himself behind her. She was deeply glad for the darkness, as surely she had to be the color of an apple in this moment. Abigail Ashe had never been this physically close to any man, let alone one such as Billy. For all the fineness of the Savannah gentlemen Maggie kept on a constant parade for her at parties and dinners, she was certain none of them would feel quite like this up close to her. His legs behind hers were solid muscle, as was the torso that dwarfed her already small frame. With one arm, a large wall of muscle locking her in as safe as she would ever be anywhere, he gripped the reins. With the other, he placed a firm hand securely on her waist, a hand that had no business covering as much surface area on her as it did.

"Sorry about this, too, Miss Ashe," he cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. His eyes were filled with a mix of genuine remorse over what he knew to be totally foreign and wildly inappropriate contact for a proper lady, and something else. Something playful. Something boyish and utterly unrepentant.

Her eyes narrowed and she could feel her own mouth pulling up at the corners. "You already know you can call me Abby."

The boyish gleam overtook the remorse. "Abby," he corrected, just loud enough for her to hear. He pulled the horse and gave it a light kick to follow Maggie's lead. Abigail had to hand it to the woman, she was certainly great to have around in a crisis.

They made their escape away from the port following back roads and trails only Maggie knew, leaving them relatively unencumbered. The few criminals who tried to approach, believing they were taking advantage of easy targets, were quickly sent scurrying at the sight of Billy decked out in the all-black raiding uniform Flint's crew had adopted, with his sword out, his own pistol held by Abigail and an impressively threatening Maggie with the dirk she'd commandeered.

After a few minutes traveling east, the sounds of the battle behind them faded. The haze of smoke and blood lifted and they were left with only a starry night.

Abigail snuck quick glances over her shoulder at him. The bedouin-style scarf wrapped carefully around his head only seemed to make his jaw seem more harsh and masculine. No, none of Maggie's Savannah gentlemen had a jaw like that, certainly not dusted with a few days worth of light blonde beard, or the sheen of sweat and rich, salty scent of the sea clinging to his skin.

"It's a _cheche_ ," he answered the question he thought she must have, the way she kept gazing up at him under those thick, long lashes. "We have a few Berbers on the crew. It's a good way to hide our faces."

Maggie lead her horse a little further ahead on the trail, doggedly feigning that she wasn't listening to every word.

"Oh," Abigail squeaked, then she cleared her throat. She hadn't been around nearly enough smoke to warrant that effect on her voice. "I guess that would be important, as this is...dangerous work."

His hand tightened on her waist and his jaw clenched for a moment before he responded, without looking back down at her. "I'm sorry. I know it's not pretty. When I knew we were coming to Savannah…" he trailed off, staring into the inky blackness of the Georgian woods. "I didn't want you to see any of this. I thought the letter would get to you faster and you'd be long gone."

"It's fine," Abigail attempted to reassure him but he only shook his head.

"It's not fine, Abby," he finally let his eyes drift back down to hers. "I killed a man in front of you tonight. You and your friend have been in danger because of me. There's nothing fine about this."

Abigail shifted in her seat to face him more fully, resting her small hand on his expansive chest. Even beneath the layers of heavy clothing and corded muscle, she could feel the heat radiating from his skin and his heartbeat thumping, a little faster now, beneath her touch. "We would have been in danger no matter what. We certainly weren't going to get out of the port side on our own. I shot someone tonight," she raised her chin. "It's not like I haven't seen -"

"You shouldn't have to," his voice grew stronger, his eyes set and adamant. "You can have any life you want. You can have anyone you want, and you keep getting mixed up in this...this bullshit. This life is violent and dangerous and fucking filthy. You're not any of those things. You're a good person. I should never have written to you, I'm sorry. I was only thinking about myself."

She pulled back as if bitten. Her face crumpled, but then anger overtook the searing pain of rejection. Her amber eyes narrowed up at him through the dark. "Who are you to tell me what I should and shouldn't have? You know full well I've been passed from family to family since Charles Town like some unwelcome piece of flotsam. They all blame it on the pirates, but I never belonged with them. Ever. Has it occurred to you that perhaps I write to you because I don't belong anywhere else?"

He stilled and pulled the reins to stop the horse, watching the small woman before him carefully. His eyes wrinkled in the corners, trying to unpuzzle her.

She took his silence as further rejection and almost visibly puffed up like a small, angry bird, something he had to fight to hide his smile from. "I liked being on that bloody boat. I liked being around people who wanted to hear what I had to say. I liked being around people who had something more interesting to talk about than the _god damn_ weather and gossip. I liked reading what you had to say," her voice cracked. She turned back away from him, entirely missing his stunned expression at her words and coarse language. "But no," she continued, refusing to look at him, "please, leave me to my wonderful fate. Any day now some fat, middle aged rejected son will grace me with his hand in marriage so he can take my money and try to get a child on me whenever the mood strikes. What a lovely future everyone wants for me." She huffed a shaky breath, then tried uselessly to kick the horse back into motion. "C'mon, we're almost there."

Billy pulled on the reins and laid a hand on her thigh to stop her from confusing the horse. She gasped under her breath at the feel of his hand on such an intimate place, despite the many layers of dress shielding her. He let the reins fall slack so he could take her chin and tilt her face back up toward his. He paused, jaw clenched, doubting himself again. "You deserve better than me, Abigail."

"I'll be the judge of that," she breathed. Neither could say who started it, but in the next breath they were leaning into each other, his hand sinking into her loose, messy dark mass of hair at the back of her head and pulling her lips to his. A fire lit from her mouth into her core, curling through her toes and back up again. She turned back toward him, letting her hands wander up his muscled core, up to his chest, across his shoulders and to those arms, those blasted arms she'd been so distracted by in his short sleeves on the _Siren_.

He smiled into the kiss, pulling her tighter and far too pleased with himself in that moment. When she sighed - a sound he realized he might never get enough of - he tested his luck, teasing at her now open lips with his tongue. When she opened for him, he groaned and felt his head spinning. Hopefully the horse knew where it was going, because at this moment, Billy didn't give a fuck as long as he was still kissing Abigail.

She felt him harden against her back and reveled in the groans rumbling out of his throat and the effect she was having on him. One of her hands moved to trace his jaw. His stubble was coarse against the soft skin of her face and under her hands, but she found that she enjoyed it. It was so purely masculine against her.

"Ahem," Maggie's small cough sent Abigail startling as far away from him as she could get while sharing a horse, and Billy visibly wincing before shooting the woman the darkest look he could muster. "The stables around the corner. Everyone's buttoned up in the house. I'll just leave you two to it," she winked and lead her horse back around the trail.

Now that she was regaining some of her senses, Abigail could indeed see the lights from the Sommer's estate and even hear some of the activity coming from within. Billy reluctantly took up the reins and spurred the horse forward. They rode in silence the short distance, but Abigail let herself lean back against him. Instead of staying firmly in place, Billy let his hand wander lower to Abigail's hip, tracing small circles with the pad of his thumb.

When they got to the torchlit stables, neither moved to dismount. Billy leaned down to rest his temple against hers, taking in the flowery scent of her hair and the sweetness of the sweat and soap on her skin. He wouldn't smell anything like this again for a long time. "I have to go," he murmured into her hair.

"I know," her head and shoulders drooped in response.

"Though, given what I've seen tonight, I have half a mind to take you and Miss...Maggie is her name? back to the ship. A few months with our crew and the pair of you will be giving Anne Bonny a run for her money," he placed a feather light kiss against her forehead.

Abigail shifted again back to him. "Would you? Would you really?"

"This ship?" Billy's brows rose comically. "Fuck no. But when this war is over, if you'll still have me, I'm coming back for you."

Her heart stuttered over itself. Months of correspondence had left her wondering if he was only humoring her, or was just bored and lonely himself. But on this night she knew. She knew by the total fear in his eyes when he saw her in the governor's office, the shame after she watched him kill another man, and the way he held her and kissed her like she was the first drink of water for a marooned man. He cared for her the way she cared for him.

He slid off the back of the horse without waiting for her reply, then pulled her down with him so that she landed ever so gently. He brushed a stray lock of hair away from her face and leaned down to kiss her again. Even though he tried to keep this more chaste, more controlled, her soft mew in response to his lips pressing onto hers, the way she leaned her body into his, and then, dear God, the way she sucked his bottom lip, nearly sent him over the edge. His mind raced immediately to the possibility of kicking open an empty stall and finding out just exactly what kinds of sounds and tastes this woman could produce for him.

He brought a hand up to cup her cheek and chin, and forced himself to slowly pull away. He couldn't get far, but his forehead rested on hers as they both panted for breath. "I have to get back to my ship."

"Do you?" The way she blinked those big golden eyes up at him almost broke him.

He bit down on the insides of his cheeks and forced himself to nod and press further away. "I do. I can't offer you anything yet, but Abigail, I promise I will come back for you."

"I have money," her voice wavered. "I don't mind…"

"No, no," he pressed another kiss into her forehead, smiling in spite of himself. "Money is only going to get us so far if I'm a wanted criminal, sweetheart."

Abby relented. "You'll come back though? And I can still send my letters to Max to get to you?"

"Of course I'm coming back," he rolled his eyes skyward as if he couldn't imagine any other outcome. "And yes, mail will be slow because of what we're doing, but honestly Abby, I live for those fucking letters."

"Good," she let her hand run down his face again, memorizing the way his short, unkempt beard felt beneath her fingers. He brought one massive hand to cover hers, turning it toward his mouth for one last kiss.

"I'll see you soon, Abigail Ashe," he smiled down at her as he remounted the horse.

"Take care of yourself, William Manderly," her hand fell out of he gave her one last look, set his face with determination and trotted the horse out of the small barn and back toward the chaos at the port.

Abigail sat down on a hay bale, the wet cold of the evening finally starting to dig at her flesh. She sat in silence, staring out the stable door, as if by pure will of heart she could magically return him.

Margaret appeared soundlessly in the door, a shawl around her shoulders. She stepped forward and offered the extra she carried to Abigail. "I thought I might find you out here. So that was _Mr. Smith_."

Abigail smiled, colored and stared down at her hands in her lap. "Yes, I guess it was."

"Hm," Maggie couldn't hide her wicked little smile. "He is quite a bit more than what I imagined."

"Isn't he just?" Abby replied too quickly.

"I hope he'll be back," Maggie sighed. "He did take one of my best horses."

Abigail licked her lips and turned to openly grin at her friend. "Well, he is a pirate."


	2. Chapter 2

Abigail dabbed a smattering of sweat from her brow with a faded kerchief and stood up straight to get a better view of her hard work. She grasped for a feeling of pride or success or hope, or anything that wasn't tainted with bittersweet sadness. All she had accomplished in the past six months had come at one steep price after another.

The first penance had been paid to the Sommers family after the attack on Savannah. Between her fallen reputation and thoroughly gossiped pirate sympathies, Mr. and Mrs. Sommers could no longer tolerate her presence in their home. Maggie had railed against them, ever the fighter, but they were not to be moved. Abigail and Maggie shared a good cry until Abigail surprised herself by wiping away her tears and insisting this was a good thing and Maggie mustn't be sad for her. She and Margaret still wrote to each other regularly, letters Abby looked forward nearly as much as she'd once awaited letters from Billy.

 _Billy_ , her other penance. He was the price she had least expected. Though in retrospect, it had all been a childish, girlish dream, hadn't it? It had been nothing more than a few shared looks on the _Walrus_ , some personal letters and a stolen kiss in the heat of battle, a battle his own crew had wrought in the name of a war his captain started.

New Providence Island was just about the only place left for Abigail to go. As a young, unmarried woman of means with a tarnished reputation, no civilized colony would ever allow her to exist in peace. A return to London was right out. She certainly wasn't going to get any decent marriage offers to correct that issue.

The preacher and his wife wouldn't be inviting her for tea anytime soon, but at least in Nassau she was downright respectable in the eyes of the locals, the new English colonists and officials alike. Her family's money bought her a moderate plot of land on the interior of the island, as well as a small house, furnishings and a well-paid staff. Her family's business manager had been aghast at her instructions, and nearly sickened when she insisted she would not be using slave labor on her land. He argued that her profit margins would be negligible for the first year, possibly years depending on the state of trade in the Caribbean, and she replied that despite wagging tongues, her values would not be negligible.

"You cannot own a human being, Mr. Munson," she'd chided with a cool sip of tea. Billy had said those words in a letter. It was something she'd always believed, but never been able to verbalize before. Her family had always owned slaves and treated it as commonplace as owning a couch.

Now she stood in the hot sun, tallying great bundles of sugarcane stalks before her men loaded them into a cart for delivery to the miller. Even this far inland, she could smell the salt of the ocean. On quiet evenings alone, she swore she could hear the waves breaking over the reefs.

They'd ride together and meet the overseer of the mill she sold exclusively to - anyone Max approved of got Abigail's business - and say goodbye to months of hard work, only to turn around and prepare to harvest the next plot of mature stalks. This was her life now.

She wondered what Billy would think of all think this, to see her running a household and a plantation on her own. She was one of the smallest operations on the island, of course, but it was all hers. Abigail's gift with sums, something many a governess and teacher had frowned upon as deeply unladylike, made the business side of farming rather natural to her. She breezed through accounts and could turn a mess of costs and numbers into the exact amount of setts to buy and which sellers were overcharging. They even had the beginnings of total self-sufficiency on their little plot. The right plants set to ground at the right time with just the right mix of animals and she found herself looking over the household accounts and needing less and less from town.

 _Yes_ , she thought with a sharp pang in her heart, _Billy would be impressed by all this_.

"Ma'am?" Mr. Kruse was looking at her expectantly, holding out a steady, calloused hand. Abigail blinked and stirred herself from her wandering thoughts, letting him help her onto the cart.

Mr. Kruse had precious little to say, and that was just as well to Abigail. It was nice to be in the company of someone who didn't require endless chatter about nothing to fill silence. The sun was low in the sky but not yet setting. They had enough time to get to the mill, make the exchange, stop by the docks for more chicken feed and return before dark. It would be a late supper for them, but they were accustomed to this on delivery days.

Mr. Kruse was a godsend. He had come with the recommendation of Max, the reigning queen of all business in Nassau town, and even Governor Rogers by way of Miss Guthrie. He used to manage the plantation of a slave owner who quit the island upon the arrival of Woodes Rogers, most likely because he preferred his goods leaving port without proper inspection and fee payments. Jackson Kruse never said anything, but Abigail sensed that her employ was something of a relief to him.

When Captain Hornigold returned to the island with the news that the _Walrus_ had sunk in a storm, all of Abigail's forward progress ground to a halt. She had been inconsolable for days, not leaving her room to eat or even attempt any measure of care for herself or her new property. Without a public connection to any man on that boat to warrant such grief, there wasn't anyone she could turn to. With the exception of her young maid, who spoke a mixture of Dutch and her native tongue that Abigail had initially struggled with, and Mr. Kruse, no one saw her for weeks.

Kaya had diligently cooked uneaten meals and maintained the house while Mr. Kruse seamlessly took over the running of the plantation and the small sustenance farm. When Abigail finally emerged from her grief-induced haze, she found everything exactly as she left it. Her life had taken such a sharp turn from the spoilt existence she'd grown up with. She genuinely forgot what it was like to wake up in the morning and not have to fear for a catastrophe.

Everything was as it should be, all thanks to these wonderful people she'd met since coming to Nassau. Everything that is, except she could no longer hold onto the dream of imagining Billy's face when she first greeted him at the docks, or receiving his letters, or feeling his arms around her again.

They conducted their business quickly and quietly. As Abigail did not deal in vast quantities of anything, and certainly nothing illegal, her business represented the simpler transactions that occurred in Nassau. They moved on to the port side of town, where it would be easy to find a merchant selling the grain Mr. Kruse preferred for the animals. As he haggled with a vendor, she caught snippets of conversation from passing sailors. Abigail generally ignored everything she heard on the docks as it was usually some combination of profane, filthy and slanderous gossip, but the bits she heard this afternoon caught her ears.

Specifically, it was names Silver and Flint and one sailor even swearing on his dead mother he had seen Captain Flint and his best men on the beach that very morning with Woodes Rogers himself. The more she attuned her ears and attempted to grasp each flitting word and phrase from passing sailors, the more she felt like she was lost at sea. Everyone was talking about Captain Flint and John Silver and the _Walrus_ returning to Nassau, a thing that simply could not be.

A hand cupped her elbow and Mr. Kruse was whispering in her ear, soft but firm, "Miss Ashe, they are just sailors telling ghost stories. Do not trouble yourself."

His chestnut brown eyes were warm and insistent, and his hand on her elbow was ever so gently guiding her back to their cart. She nodded mutely and acquiesced. The cart ride home was silent and blessedly swift. It had been months since she'd been so bothered over the death of William Manderly and the gossip throughout Nassau about the state of their ship and crew. Flint and the _Walrus_ had apparently long been beacons of piracy for the people of Nassau, but in death they became wraiths and demons, lurking in shadows and darkness to punish the men who'd turned their back on their cause and gone crawling back to England. It had taken a long time, and a lot of false hope, before the rumors died and people lost interest in talking about a ship and crew that was clearly lost.

Hours later, she picked at her uneaten dinner, left by Kaya, staring out the window. Mr. Kruse had retired for the evening with his family in the overseer's house on the other side of the property and Kaya would be happily getting along with the other unattached maidservants with whom she shared a small cottage not far down the road. At first, the isolation had frightened her; she'd never been in a home that wasn't bustling with family, guests and servants.

It no longer frightened her, but on nights like this, with the fire dwindling and a single candle flickering on the table, she was certainly lonely. Before news of the _Walrus_ had landed, she'd imagined over and over looking out the window to see Billy's tall figure striding down the dirt road to her fence. She'd worked hard to stop those daydreams.

Determined to not spend the evening dwelling on something miserable that she couldn't fix, she set to patching the worn spot in one of her linen skirts. The tougher fabrics and simple skirts and shirts and waistcoats were a far cry from the beautiful gowns she'd been dressed in since birth, but dear God they held up to working outdoors more than any of the ridiculous garments she'd brought from Savannah. It had only taken her about a fortnight to forgo corset stays for the simple waistcoats worn over shirts, or even just heavy shirts and chemises, like many of the other country women here wore. Kaya had been visibly relieved to no longer have to arrive early enough to help Abigail dress in the morning.

As she worked her needle through the fabric, the steady _clomp-clomp-clomp_ of a horse grew louder and louder, until she was sure she wasn't imagining the noise. Her house was off the main road and it was far too late for a visitor. The noise became more distinct; it was a horse approaching at a fast canter, maybe even a gallop.

Abigail set the needlework to the side and cautiously approached the window with her candle, then cursed herself a fool and snuffed it out. She turned toward the hearth and considered smothering the fire, but remembered the smoke. She moved the screen and a chair in front of it, hoping to block the light from the burning embers. Her heart was thumping far too loud and fast. She'd been warned by everyone that a woman living alone on a pirate-infested island was simply asking for trouble, but in six months she'd grown to feel so safe here.

She peeked out the window again, but could only see darkness still. She bit her lip and recalled the conversation in which Mr. Kruse had suggested, no, begged her to keep a loaded blunderbuss by the door and she had only laughed and told him she was more likely to blow herself up than defend herself with such a weapon. And then he'd given her an old boatswain's pipe to blow if she ever felt unsafe. "This blasted thing can be heard over 32-pounders blowing on other ships leagues away, I'll hear you," he'd assured her.

Abigail snatched the whistle off the hook where it had hung ever since by the door and ventured one more look out the front window before racing toward the back of the house. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness inside the house which gave her a clearer view outside and what she saw froze her.

There was only one rider, which matched the hoof beats she'd heard, and he was too tall to look that easy on horseback. Abigail's fingers touched the window as if they might brush away the phantom conjured by her mind. She swayed on her feet, hit with a wave of dizziness. It was him, she would know him anywhere. As he got closer, she could even see his bare shirt sleeves in the moonlight, if not make out his face.

Her feet were moving of their own accord, out the door to her wooden porch. She stayed there, swaying, still struggling to breathe even has he reached her fence and leapt from the horse, then leapt over the small gate and stormed up her walk.

It was him. It was Billy, _her_ Billy. He was alive and coming up her small walkway looking positively thunderous.

The pipe fell from her fingers and she was off the porch and running to meet his long strides, oblivious to his knitted brows and clenched fists. When they reached each other, he gripped her by her shoulders, almost painfully, stopping her before she could throw her arms around him. His eyes lit like blue fire on her. His hands betrayed the faintest tremor. A sheen of sweat glinted off his arms and chest, his shirt sticking to his skin at places from his apparently hard ride from town.

"What are you doing here?" "You're alive!" They both finally spoke, at the same moment.

His large fingers relaxed on Abigail's arms and the flames left his countenance. Billy shook his head before speaking again. "I told you I would come back for you, in Savannah, _when it was over_."

"They said your ship sank." Abigail was leaning her face up into him, blinking those blasted doe eyes at him as if he hadn't stormed up to her like an angry bull just moments ago. Since getting word that Max had a message for him, he had gone from his kneejerk happiness at knowing she was here, to frustration that _she was here_ , then to disbelief that she could be so naive and finally to outright anger and a solid determination to send her right back where she came from, whether she liked it or not. There had been a moment when he first put his hands on her when he genuinely considered throwing her over his shoulder, carrying her back to the first boat he could find and sailing her back to the colonies himself.

He deflated. "No," a smile tugged at Billy's lips and he relented further, brushing a strand of dark hair off her face, "it was close, though."

Her lips pressed together in a pout and she pushed forward, wrapping her arms around him. He relaxed into it, unable to hide his smile. He held her right back, still stroking her soft hair. He'd missed this, even if he'd only ever gotten it once before. When he felt a little wetness leaking from her eyes onto his shirt, he pulled back and tipped her chin up to him. There were no dramatics, just silent tears and a quivering lip. "I heard them talking today, saying that your ship had returned, but I couldn't…" she broke off, afraid to admit to him the full extent of her grief.

He studied her, unsure of himself. Their last meeting had been fairly clear about their feelings, and the few letters they'd been able to exchange before everything had all gone to hell had been personal and hopeful, but to think that she was sitting around pining for him, even grieving him, was incomprehensible. It still boggled his mind that she entertained him at all. In six months in Nassau, could she have possibly gone so unnoticed by the sailors and soldiers and farmers? What did she still want him around for?

He brushed a tear away with a calloused thumb. When she closed her eyes and leaned her face into his hand, it was all he could do to whisper, "It's fine now."

Abigail opened her eyes, took a deep breath and nodded resolutely. She was a tough country woman now and would not have him see her falling apart. "Perhaps we should continue this inside over tea?" She started to walk back toward the house, but stopped when his hand fell from hers and he didn't follow.

At her confused look, he chuckled under his breath, hands on his hips, awkwardly casting his gaze around at the darkness. "I, um, you know," he gestured vaguely at her, "you're a young lady and I'm a wanted criminal. I really shouldn't be in your house alone with you at night."

She hadn't noticed until he set his hands on his hips that he was armed from head to toe. Communicating only by post, his intelligence and eloquence made it entirely too easy to forget that he was, in fact, a pirate. But standing before her in salt and sun-beaten clothes, a cutlass at his hip, a pistol in his belt, at least one blade she could see in his boot, not to mention the decidedly ungentlemanly leather wraps at his wrists and corded necklaces at his open collar, his form carved with dense muscle head-to-toe shaped by a lifetime spent fighting a ship, other men, even the ocean itself, he was unmistakably and unapologetically not of polite society.

She wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. Her reputation was so ruined she'd been chased off one continent, told in no uncertain terms she was unwelcome on another, and now she'd settled into a place with almost no rule of law and still managed to find someone to associate herself with even this society deemed dangerous.

Billy still kept his eyes averted anywhere but directly on Abigail and the darkness of her house. In his discomfort, he finally saw, squinting through the night, the extent of the property. The brief exchange with Max came back to him, most of which he hadn't fully processed because he stopped listening when she said that Miss Ashe was in Nassau. "This is all yours?"

Abigail sighed. This was not the grand reveal she had imagined. "Yes, it's not much, but it's mine." She let him observe the grounds in silence for a few moments. Settling into the idea that he was here and alive and standing before her, she was finally calming down enough to notice the cool breeze moving through her skirts. "I appreciate your respect for propriety and my reputation, Mr. Manderly, but really, I don't think anyone seeing us standing here talking alone in the dark will think any better of me than if I invite you in for tea."

With a curse under his breath, he followed her inside. He pulled his baldric over his head, his knuckles just scraping the ceiling, and propped his sword next to the door with a grimace. Walking around a lady's house was bad enough, and leaving weapons all over the place served as a stark reminder for him just how wrong he was here.

As she set to lighting the candles, he lit the stove and filled the kettle with fresh water as if he'd been in her home countless times before. After she had the last candle lit, she watched him silence. The way the muscles in his back bunched and moved under his shirt in the candlelight had a strangely hypnotic quality. He dwarfed her stove, which she had never before considered especially small. Her entire house suddenly seemed small and tight, where before she had considered it breezy at best, but often desolate and empty. Now it was quite full, with someone she'd given up for dead.

She realized with a start that he had turned to look at her and caught her staring. She colored immediately, but this time he didn't bashfully look away. His gaze stayed on her, unreadable and still. Then he twinkled with humor and raised himself to his full height. "Why are you dressed like Miss Guthrie?"

The question threw her. She looked down at her clothes and pondered over the times she had seen Eleanor Guthrie of late, and the woman had most certainly not been dressed like this. She was always the picture of demure English modesty. Slowly she remembered, looking at her hands with slightly dirty fingernails on her well-worn waistcoat. The memories of her time from Captains Lowe and Vane vacillated between sharp, heart-stopping reality and a hazy, blurred dream-like quality. The first time she ever met Miss Guthrie, Eleanor had been dressed in a similar fashion and Abby had been nearly delirious from her time spent in one dark prison cell after another. She had never seen the woman before, and didn't see her after until she returned to Nassau. Eleanor's fashion change had never occurred to her before.

"Well, it's…functional." Abigail tugged and shifted at her clothing under his amused scrutiny.

He reached a hand out to stop her fidgeting, but thought better of it and pulled away. "It's fine, I shouldn't have -" The tea kettle chose that moment to whistle. Billy turned to attend to it, but so did Abigail. In the small space they bumped and tangled together, apologizing over each other and each insisting the other sit.

Finally, Abigail rested a hand over Billy's and said with a firm look, " _Please_ , sit." If he sat at her table and she served tea like a proper hostess, maybe, just maybe, she could shake off this thunderstruck shock that kept rocking through her in unpredictable waves. Just when she felt her heart settle and her breathing ease into something natural, he reminded her that he was alive when just hours ago he had been dead.

Maybe it was the softness of her hand on his, or the way his body had instantly reacted when she'd bumped into his back then brushed along his side, or even the easy domesticity of something as simple as making tea in a clean house with a proper lady, but he couldn't summon further argument against letting her serve tea. It was a silly thing, but he ran so much in his life on the _Walrus_ , where everything was done as a team, it felt strange to fold himself into a small kitchen table chair and simply let her work. Watching this tiny woman stretch on her tiptoes to reach her tea cups and flutter about for milk and sugar and tea spoons, clearly harried and unaccustomed to serving company in this kitchen, galled at him to not jump up and help her. He had to admit, though, that watching her struggle to reach things on higher shelves was adorable.

After pouring his cup and then her own, Abigail finally settled herself across from Billy. Without adding anything to it, he raised his cup to her before taking a sip. Abigail had to hide her smile behind her own cup. In his massive hands, her tea set was positively ridiculous.

Billy set the cup down, painfully aware of its fragility, and cut to the chase. "Abigail, and please don't think I'm not happy to see you, because I am, but what are you doing here?"

Her fingers tightened on her tiny porcelain cup. Wasn't it obvious? Hadn't she told him over and over in her letters, and even in person, how little she was welcomed by her own people? How did he think the people of Savannah, especially her hosts, would treat her after Flint's attack?

She watched his face before choosing her reply. He was staring at her with that same mixture of apprehension, maybe even fear, and bewilderment as he had the first time he'd sat across from her at Flint's table. "After Savannah, I lived in a hotel for a short while, until the owner could no longer bear the scandal of keeping me under his roof." The hard lines in Billy's jaw clenched at that. Perhaps he truly didn't know the extent of her ostracization. "I met with my family's estate manager who advised me to invest my new wealth in something quiet and safe, and retire to a country house where I would no longer be a burden on anyone."

Billy didn't know this man, but he wanted to hit him.

"The Sommers family ran a rather large plantation and while I was there, I learned a great deal about it. When Mr. Munson advised me to invest, I sent out letters of inquiry to a number of places far from the large cities." Billy's tea was growing cold, forgotten before him. "I heard back from a few people, but it was Max's letter that caught my eye, especially since she had handled our correspondence so discreetly before. She told me life here would be no more pleasant than I found it the first time around," she laughed. Billy didn't. "But there was a plot of land left behind by a farmer who'd moved on, desperately overgrown and in need of someone willing to invest, and if I came here I could live _free_. She said even with the return of English law, Nassau would always be a wild place and I would never face judgment because some deeply insane pirate stole me off a boat years ago."

Billy leaned back in his chair, ran his hands through his cropped hair, then came back forward, resting his elbows on the table. The wood of the table creaked in protest at his weight. "Please tell me that you had more reason to come here than gossip and the word of the town brothel owner?"

Abigail flinched, stung. She pushed her tea cup and saucer away from herself and stiffened her spine. "Mr. Manderly, I assure you the situation was far more serious than idle gossip. I can also assure you that I am not such a flighty child as to make significant financial and personal decisions without conducting all the requisite research first. I consulted with the woman who owns, manages, has a share in or otherwise oversees every business on this island that yes, happens to include a _brothel_." Billy opened his mouth to interject, but Abigail wasn't done. "In the past six months, I have turned this property from a decrepit piece of junk land into a producing sugar cane plantation without the use of slave labor. We actually saved more than half of the crop already growing wild on the land and turned a profit on it. I have the smallest plot on the island and my employees take home more money from each cut than any of their peers. I don't know exactly what life you think I ought to be living, but this is a far cry better going from house to house begging for approval from English snobs." She raised her chin and pulled a deep breath through her nose. She refused to turn her eyes away from his openly surprised expression. She would not be shamed in her own house.

Billy's open-mouth stare turned into a sly smile. "You pay them in shares of the profit?" Abigail nodded. "Like a pirate ship?" Her eyes widened and her cheeks colored, so she quickly took up her lukewarm teacup again.

"It's a good business model." She set her cup down and smoothed her skirts. "People who want to work are…"

"More productive?"

"Exactly." She refreshed her cup but Billy shook his head for more tea. His cup was still mostly full anyway.

"Abigail, it's not…what you've done here is amazing, truly." Billy fought the urge to reach out and take her hand. She was warming up again after he'd offended her, now sitting up a little straighter with pride instead of rebuke. "But what Flint is going to do, what _we're_ going to do ... Nassau is about to be a war zone. It's going to be dangerous. I wanted you as far away from all this as possible."

Abigail sighed, a quick puff of air through clenched teeth. She'd been doing that a lot lately. "Well, I'm here now and I've got nowhere else to go. I've got too much invested in the plantation and frankly, I don't want to leave."

She was looking out the window, although they both knew there was nothing to see in the darkness. "I heard men saying your ship arrived yesterday, or maybe the day before?"

He winced and looked down at his hands. "We did, but I had," he paused, searching for the right euphemism, " _work_ to do and I didn't know you were here. As soon as Max told me, I -"

"I know, Billy," her tone softened and he felt a weight sink harder onto his chest.

"Listen, what I have to do, you might hear things. Not all of it's gonna be true, but some of it will be. If you find you don't want to associate with me anymore, I'll understand."

If he hadn't looked so bloody earnest she would have thrown her tea cup, or perhaps the whole kettle at him. As it was she pushed herself up and away from the table, so hard her chair almost toppled over. He blinked up at her, confounded. "Why are you always in such a hurry to get rid of me?" The shrill tone of her voice betrayed her.

"Wha?" His country accent only grew thicker when he was particularly flummoxed or frustrated, which infuriated Abigail because damned if she didn't think the dropped t's were charming. "What'd'you mean 'get rid of you'? Are you mad?"

"In Savannah you went on about how wrong it was for us to write and how you never should have entertained it, and now you're here, _alive_ , telling me I _shouldn't_ be here." She sucked in air before her voice broke. "I feel like such a fool." She came back stronger, "But whether you want to see me or not, I am not leaving this island."

He pushed up from his chair, scraping the legs slowly across the tile floor and instantly reminding her that he was far too large for her little house. Something dark and hot pulsed from his chest to his eyes. The look sent strange flutters through her core and some part of her brain told her she should be afraid, but she wasn't. He leaned over the table, pressing his hands against it. The candlelight reflected off his tanned, strong arms, casting shadows and lights that made him look impossibly larger. "I seem to recall," he began quietly, "that you yelled at me, much like you did just now, I told you that you were mistaken, and then I kissed you fucking senseless. A couple-a times, before promising to come back as long as you still would have me. Am I mistaken?"

Oh no, he was not mistaken. He apparently remembered that night as well, and perhaps as often, as she did. She found herself biting the insides of her cheeks in an attempt to keep a cool expression, knowing full well she wasn't fooling him. "I wasn't senseless," she breathed.

"Well, I fucking was." He straightened and stepped around the table, his long legs making short work of the distance to her. Abigail's breath caught in her throat as in the blink of an eye he was towering over her, her back against the wall, with one hand pressed flat next to her head. "I couldn't get rid of you if I tried. You're like a bloody siren. I stole that horse and ran her the whole way here as soon as I heard. I think I'd jump off the ship and start swimming if I thought I heard your voice at sea. I want you to know you can walk away from this because God knows I can't."

As he spoke, she watched his Adam's apple moving against his throat. She noticed the golden beard growth along his jaw that matched the last time she saw him. She wondered if he made it a habit to shave only once a week or so. She noticed when his eyes, especially dark this evening, flickered to her lips when she wet them with her tongue. He had a strange way of making her mouth go dry, especially when he was far too close to her like this. When she realized he'd stolen the horse, she couldn't stop the giggle.

He furrowed in confusion, wondering what he'd said that could possibly be funny. She beamed up at him, far too at ease with their proximity. "You stole Maggie's horse, too."

Billy snorted. "Apparently you have that effect on me."

Abigail raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you really going to blame me for your proclivity toward stealing?"

The corner of his mouth ticked up a fraction. "Horses? Yes, that's a rather unique one, even for me." He didn't move to give her more space. Neither of them moved. The air between them grew heavy and thick.

"Are you planning on stealing anything else this evening, Mr. Manderly?" Abigail's voice barely rose above a whisper.

 _God dammit_. He let his other hand reach out to brush her cheek. It took far too much self-control to stop it from drifting to her waist. Feeling her under his hands without a stiff barrier of stays would be his undoing. "No, Miss Ashe," he spoke in a hoarse voice. "I wouldn't steal from you."

Her lips were parted, eyes wide and dark; he knew she was waiting for him to close the distance. All he had to do was lean down a little, pull her face to his. _She doesn't know about the inn_ , the thought rushed unbidden to the forefront of his mind. She hadn't said a word about the story spreading like a fire, licking at the heels of the rumored return of Flint and the _Walrus_. She hadn't heard about the man beaten to death in the name of rejecting English pardons.

Billy's hand dropped from her cheek and he straightened with a sharp jerk and small step back from her. The space he had just vacated burned and left Abigail marveling at his ability to continuously pull away like this. His face had gone white, then he took on the hard and serious manner he had when they first met aboard the _Walrus_.

"I meant what I said." The corners of his mouth were pulled down and something like regret glinted in his eyes. "You're going to hear things about us and the work we're doing."

"And what work is that?" Emboldened, she pushed herself away from the wall and stepped toward him.

He had to fight the smile. He had the sneaking suspicion he could tell her everything and she would be shocked, collect herself and then ask him what was next and how she could help. It was tempting, like the impulse to scoop her up in his arms and carry her down the darkened hallway to the bedroom he hadn't seen yet.

She could weather anything, he knew that much. She could be here, like the Barlow woman had been for Flint. _And how wonderfully that turned out_ , the thought twisted in his gut. "I should go." He turned back to the door to slip his baldric back over his shoulder and miss the way Abigail closed her eyes and clamped her mouth shut.

When the little house remained silent, save the gentle crackling from the hearth and dying stove, he slowly turned back to face her. She hadn't moved, but her head was high, staring blindly down the hall.

"These people," his throaty and warm voice brought Abigail's eyes to his, "they tortured me, for days. They murdered Mrs. Barlow and put her body out for show. They snatch little boys off the street and chain them up on ships to work for almost no food or water, and get beat when they can't work anymore. And they expect us to apologize and beg forgiveness from them." At some point, they had drifted back together. "I can't let that happen, Abby."

Abigail brought one hand to his chest and the other to his face. It was hard to imagine someone so large and strong and vital victimized at the hands of anyone. She could weep for him, but he didn't want pity and she had grown tougher than she thought possible in the past year. "Alright," she nodded. It was all she could say. She understood what it was to know your life was in the hands of someone who valued it no more than garbage in the street.

This time, they met halfway. Their lips crushed together and hands snaked around each other, grasping for a closeness time and distance denied them. Abigail breathed him in, reveling in the hard planes of his body against hers, the harsh burn of his beard against her cheek, the strength of his hands at her back and waist, the warmth of his mouth, insistent and demanding. The emptiness that had haunted her since coming to Nassau vanished against his lips.

Kissing her was like time stopped. Nothing else mattered, not Silver or Flint or Defrense or even England. When she parted her lips for him, he groaned and sank his tongue into her mouth. She met him with her own, still tentative and unsure in this, with none of the practiced artistry of a tavern girl but a muffled mew and warm, wet softness that made his blood sing through his veins.

He lifted her off her feet with no discernible effort and sat her on the table, lips still locked together. Later, Abigail would be impressed by his ability to navigate her home so easily with his eyes closed. Right now though, leaning up into his mouth, pressing herself ever closer against his body and she felt herself dissolving.

When Billy brought his hand to her knee, his body screaming to push her skirt up, he broke off the kiss. Their foreheads rested together, panting in each other's air. He blinked his eyes open and saw her wide, lust-darkened eyes and pretty, kiss-swollen lips and knew if he asked she would give into him. He pressed his lips to her temple. "I have to go."

"Why?" Her voice was so pained he didn't know whether to laugh or relent. His head was still swimming and every piece of him wanted to reach out and touch her again.

His eyes flickered down the hallway before he whispered, "You know why." He took her hands and helped her off the table, then kissed the knuckles of her right hand. "Goodnight, Abigail."

"Wait," she rushed forward as he turned back toward the door. His expression was so blatantly hopeful, her breath caught in her throat. "When will I see you again?"

He bit back the laugh that threatened to rumble out of his throat. "This is Nassau, we don't really call on people here, at least I don't think the pirates do." Her shoulders sank and she started chewing on her bottom lip. "I can stop by again, for...tea, if you'd like me to."

"I would," she nodded resolutely.

"Alright then," he couldn't quell the little bubble of hope that sprang up. "When I can, if you'll have me, I'll come by during the day, when your maid is here."

"Goodnight, Billy," Abigail smiled and gave him a tiny curtsy that sent blush rushing up the back of his neck.

When he was out the door and through her gate and on his horse, Abigail immediately set pen to paper for a letter to Maggie. If she didn't tell someone about this evening, she feared she might burst. Her hands shook with unspent energy and she realized she was far past time to have made a female friend and confidante on Nassau. That was something she would set to work on first thing tomorrow. But tonight, she would use pen and ink to relive every moment of her brief reunion with Billy.

The slow, dolorous ride back to the Barlow home was fraught with his own debate over just how much war she'd be able to stand before cutting him out completely.

The realization hit him like a loose boom arm in a storm. If she didn't put him off herself, he'd have to stop seeing her.

Or he'd have to marry her.


	3. Chapter 3

"I think you should accept his offer." Eleanor, true to fashion, waited just long enough for the maid to serve coffee and leave before cutting right to her purpose. The men had retired to the smoking room with a few sly comments about business "not fit for ladies' ears." That had earned them a dark scowl from Eleanor, who probably had more time commanding the island, boat crews and men's business than all of them combined, dresses be damned. Governor Rogers bit back a smile at her instant snarl, gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and ushered the officers out of the dining room.

The invitation to dine with the governor and English-sponsored leaders of Nassau had not come as a surprise. Miss Guthrie had called on Abigail more than once, and, as a citizen of the crown and local landowner, Abigail represented a "concern" for the governor. At least, that's how Miss Guthrie had phrased it. Abigail remained publicly neutral in all affairs, patronizing the businesses of loyalists and rebels alike and staying away from any resistance gatherings. They were easy enough to avoid: Billy told her how he deployed his "agitators," as he called them, and of course always passed warning before anything significant would stir up more trouble for loyalists.

Like another black spot murder.

In their visits, Eleanor spoke at length about the difficulties of being a solitary woman in Nassau. Abigail listened attentively. No matter the woman's intentions, she undoubtedly had experience to share. Eleanor couched her and Rogers' concerns over her with words like "security" and "safety."

"The future is uncertain," Eleanor had said on one such visit. "A woman alone in the world has only one currency that cannot be seized by tariffs, blockades, or a bad season."

Abigail was not so naïve as to believe that Miss Guthrie and Governor Rogers' concerns were purely for her safety. No, their concerns had to more to do with her neutrality. In addition to her discretion with never being seen supporting the pirate Brethren, as they'd come to be called, she also had not donated a single dime of her family's wealth to Rogers or the crown's militia.

Like the dinner invitation, Eleanor's bluntly-stated purpose was also not a surprise. The young, dashing and cold Lieutenant Trent Pierce had not yet called on her at her home, but made a rather stiff point of walking her to and from her cart on the occasions he'd seen her in town. He was the single second son of a new merchant who would do well to marry a colonial girl with money, even if she was a bit besmirched.

They, of course, had not spoken a word to each other of so much as a courtship, but Eleanor was sharp as a tack and about five paces ahead of anyone she ever met. It had also not escaped Abigail's notice that someone as cool as Pierce would do little more than nod to her in the street if he didn't have a design on her.

Pierce had taken a position over the remains of Hornigold's militia. A officer of the Royal Navy, his task was to marshal all loyal forces under the English banner and consolidate their leadership on the island. If she were to marry him, it would mark a significant financial gain for the crown's efforts in securing Nassau.

When Abigail didn't respond, Eleanor continued. "He will not want a long courtship, of course. This place is a tinderbox and Spain is coming."

"Yes," Abigail sighed and set her coffee down. "Once he gets my money, he can afford to re-outfit the what's left of the fleet for defense of the harbor. I understand England has not responded to Governor Rogers' or the commodore's requests for more funds in anticipation of war with Spain?"

Eleanor squinted and the ghost of a smile hinted across her lips. She took a sip of coffee and continued to watch the younger woman with something like fondness. "You do an excellent job of pretending you don't have the faintest idea what's going on. "

"And," Abigail, smirked and continued, "I believe 'defense of the harbor' is simply a euphemism for turning all broadsides toward the port if and when the Brethren and militia finally clash."

Eleanor leaned back into her tall, tufted chair with a new appreciation of her young friend. "Why Miss Ashe, I believe you are only one or two steps short of being a true woman of Nassau."

"What are those one or two steps you believe I'm deficient?"

Eleanor arched a slender brow, eager to test her limits. "For one, your business is far too honest. You'll need to start taking part in smuggling. Taxable goods, weapons, that sort of thing. And two," she leaned forward conspiratorially, "you have to fuck a pirate."

It wasn't the language that made her color. God knew she'd used the words before. The men who worked her plantation were a mix of farmers and former sailors who made little effort to clean up their language in her presence. Billy tried, but swearing was quite possibly a second language to him.

No, Eleanor, as usual, nailed Abigail to the wall. Billy had protested vehemently, and then finally conceded to her logic, when they first started the smuggling. A survey of her property revealed access to a small river that let out into a shallow, well-concealed and never traveled cove. The river was tricky - shallow and rocky throughout, fast enough to break apart an errant boat - but a skilled sailor could navigate small boatloads of supplies right up to Abigail's densely jungled property. From there it was only a matter of concealing the goods in whatever they were bringing to town.

They had stood side by side looking over the water. Billy scowled, shaking his head.

"You said you were having problems bringing in supplies through the main port," Abigail arched a brow up at him.

"Yes," Billy drug out the word. "But this is…"

"Smuggling," Abigail nodded gamely.

Billy looked down at her, squinting his eyes and searching for some evidence of the exact moment she became _this._ She only beamed up at him and he lost the battle to the amusement and pride stirring for her. "I feel like I shouldn't be this surprised. I should have seen this coming, and yet."

"And yet," she replied cheekily. And so she embarked on a small smuggling venture with the Brethren.

The other thing was something Abigail could seldom stop thinking about. Billy visited weekly, always during the day, and always with an elaborate excuse. Sometimes he brought extra lamb from their own stock, other times he made himself busy fixing something on the house, tilling the sustenance garden, helping with the animals. Once a month he came with a small crew of men to help with the harvest, which was a thinly-veiled excuse to pick up their shipment of flint stones, powder, rifles, swords and other such items. Their friendship was no secret, but not something she flaunted around Nassau. He was popular enough amongst the locals, loyalist and pirate alike, for this to be brushed aside as his sorry attempt at courtship.

However, since that first night, he had made a significant effort of never being alone with her. She told herself it was for the best, but every time he came and went without incident she was left disappointed. Her upbringing dictated that he was right, it was improper to want anything from a single man other than chaperoned visits. It was made more egregious that he was a criminal.

But the past two years had taught her that life wasn't so simple. English society could make rules until the second coming, that didn't mean they were _right_. She could follow those rules to the letter and still end up shunned and shamed and desperately unhappy. Was it so wrong to want to spend time with a person who made her happy, when life was so short and there was so little happiness to be found?

Eleanor was watching her with a sly smile. She took the flush of pink in Abigail's cheeks and neck as confirmation of at least one of the two items and sipped her coffee. "You can talk to me, you know, but I understand we aren't well acquainted. I am aware that you socialize with Max; I'm certain she would never let you go ignorant of anything important."

If possible, Abigail turned a brighter shade of red. Eleanor had misjudged her, _massively_ , and perhaps Billy, too. Abigail had no idea what to make of it or how to respond. Eleanor had correctly guessed Abigail's participation in one of the two activities, but now she couldn't exactly deny one without confirming the other. Miss Guthrie was the governor's right hand and a staunch supporter of the return of English rule to Nassau. The rebellion - and more serious concerns from Spain - had done a solid job halting the execution of pirates and smugglers, but she could still be arrested and have her property seized.

"You will, however," Eleanor continued, assuming Abigail's silence was assent, "need to put a stop to it for Pierce, whenever he plucks up the courage to ask you."

That caught Abigail off guard. "The courage?"

"Please, we both know you're something of a pet to half the island. On an island like this that alone would scare off lesser men," Eleanor paused, her eyes drifting to the closed door the men had disappeared behind. "It's also no secret that the first mate to Silver spends an inordinate amount of his time at your plantation."

The silence that fell was deafening. Eleanor wasn't wrong about any of that. "You think that if Lieutenant Pierce were to court me, it might stir up more problems between the pirates and the crown."

Eleanor rose from her seat and paced to the window, pursing her lips in thought. "You already know it will." She turned back to Abigail, more serious and pensive than she had ever seen her. "It would also help add a measure of stability and reaffirm this island's commitment to British rule if one of her more prominent businesswomen were to publicly and personally align herself with the governor. Others will follow your example. War with Spain is an inevitability. The last thing any of us need is to weaken our own home with a civil war over Flint's damaged pride."

The image of Miranda Hamilton's crumpled, bleeding form flashed through Abigail's mind. This was closely followed by the memory of a particularly warm day when Abigail and Kaya both stopped what they were doing in the house at the sight of Mr. Kruse and Billy emerging from the cane fields, each with their shirts wrapped around their heads. It was their backs that stopped both women. Their skin tones couldn't have been more different - Mr. Kruse's dark satin brown to Billy's burnished gold - but they each bore matching, silvery lash scars crisscrossing their shoulders. No one could be free like this. Echoing Eleanor's choice of words, "You and I both know it's about much more than Captain Flint's pride."

"I know what it is to be in love with one of them," Eleanor snapped, then reeled herself back. "You want to believe him because he believes it so much himself. It's so easy to get swept up in it, but the truth is they don't want to build a home or protect their people." Her voice was steady but her eyes were glassy. "They are hunters and killers, all of them. They would fight anything that stood in the way of their freedom to hunt and kill with impunity."

Eleanor could be so beautiful. Her ability to flit between demure English rose and hardened pirate queen all while looking like something a painter had dreamt up was a marvel to Abigail. She stood and joined Eleanor at the window. Outside, Nassau teemed with life. "They can't hang us all," had been a prophecy, now it was a way of life. The navy blockade at the harbor had only redirected smuggling operations to smaller ports, private harbors and hidden coves all over the island. Men who knew how to traverse the jungles and the lay of the land were in high demand. Pirates and shady merchants lived and worked right out in the open next to militia and uniformed sailors. Governor Rogers simply did not have the manpower to arrest more than half the island.

"In my experience," Abigail spoke softly, "all men are hunters and killers. Some simply have something better to fight for than others."

"Billy is as much of a killer as the rest of them." Abigail didn't stifle the audible, sharp intake of breath. Her instinct to defend Billy from this woman was wildly misplaced but present nonetheless. "He was the envy of Charles Vane. I even hear that Teach has designs on grooming him as his successor, which would make him Charles's successor. Any man in this part of the world who earned the respect of Vane and Teach is a pirate to his core."

"And if he were to accept a pardon, and a letter of marque, and join Pierce's men privateering or the militia, killing and hunting on behalf of the government, even turning his guns on our own town against our own people, would that make him less of a pirate?"

Eleanor's mouth quirked up and she took one of Abigail's hands. "You think he is different because he is kind and gentle with you. I used to feel the same about Charles. As soon as I stood in his way, he crucified my father." She dropped Abigail's hand and returned his gaze to the torch lit street outside. "Billy had a hand in at least three black spot murders since naming John Silver as the _pirate king_ of Nassau, to strike fear into the hearts of any who would stand against them. Do you honestly think he would not simply remove you from his path one way or another if you were to provide any resistance to his glorious work here? What happens when he plans to deliver the black spot to a person you care about? You shouldn't have to learn the hard way, as I did."

"I am sorry Charles hurt you," Abigail began, "but Billy is not him."

"He will never marry you." Eleanor cut to the quick, her words like a sharp knife cutting Abigail open and spilling out secret thoughts she had never given voice to. "If you don't take steps to look out for yourself -"

The door to the smoking room swung open, bringing with it a waft of cigar fumes and the gentlemen, apparently finished with their own business. Eleanor straightened her posture and plastered a bright smile on her face for Woodes. Abigail was slower to wipe the troubled look off her face.

Trent cautiously approached Abigail. He cut a fine figure in his royal blue, gold-trimmed coat. Dark hair, blue eyes, medium height, there was nothing particularly distinctive about him. He didn't arrest her the way Billy had since the first time she laid eyes on him. He gave her a thin-lipped smile and nod before Woodes spoke up, "I am informed your driver had to leave before dinner was over, Miss Ashe." That was a surprise to Abigail, but not Eleanor. "Lieutenant Pierce has offered to escort you home. You can take our carriage."

"I'm sure that won't be necessary." Abigail tried to smile graciously, but couldn't fight the sense she had been ambushed.

Eleanor looped an arm through one of Abigail's and waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense, your house is too far to walk and it's so late. A young woman should not be on the streets unescorted at this hour."

The irony of Eleanor giving that speech did not escape Abigail, or Woodes, who gamely bit back a smirk.

The freedom of the uncovered carriage was almost a relief to Abigail after the crowded dining room, stifled with hidden messages and feigned meanings. The effort of pretending to be unbothered by her coffee with Eleanor had nearly sent her dizzy. Though, that may have just been the return to wearing stays for the evening. The ocean breeze on her face brought a modicum of deliverance, but she wouldn't be able to truly breathe until she was home, alone, and got the bloody thing off.

The fresh air even eased the awkwardness of sitting across from Trent, who had yet to look her in the eye. When he finally spoke, it was with a clarity she hadn't expected. "You have been most surprising, Miss Ashe."

She kept her hands folded neatly in her lap and waited for him to explain, but he didn't. He watched her across the carriage with those crystalline blue eyes, sharp as diamonds in the moonlight. "I'm afraid I don't take your meaning, Sir."

He pressed another thin-lipped smile and shifted in his seat. "It's only…they speak of the women here as if you're…"

"Savages?" she offered.

Trent had the decency to look abashed. "Yes, and your ordeal is well known. That you would come back here at all is astonishing, but you even continue to hire _locals_ to help your harvests. One would assume you'd gone native, yet here you sit, as pretty and English as any could hope."

Abigail blinked slowly and kept her mouth tightly shut. He clearly meant to compliment her, but it was so entangled with his well-bred snobbery it was difficult to discern where the insult stopped and the flattery began. "I, thank you," she choked out and cleared her throat as daintily as possible.

He turned his attention to the plots of farmland they were passing, mostly overrun and abandoned. The jungle was want to take everything back here. "I would like to offer the use of some of the militiamen for your extra harvesting needs. I am told you recruit extra help fairly regularly from within the town."

They both knew what _extra help_ she was recruiting and why he would prefer his own men on her land, probably in more ways than one. Abigail let her eyes wander the scenery as well, terrified he'd finally look at her again and read her expression like a book. "Oh, well, they do fine work. Since the blockade, so many locals are underemployed, and I would hate to put extra strain on your resources."

"It would be no trouble," he said a touch too quickly.

Fortunately, they arrived at Abigail's gate before he could further press the matter. He alighted from the carriage and offered her his hand. "May I walk you to your door?"

It was strange. She hadn't thought twice about practically dragging Billy into her house in the middle of the night, but Trent made her hesitate. Perhaps he reminded her too much of her upbringing, but she was keenly aware of the hour and just how alone they were. "Yes, that would be fine." She forced the smile. His hand felt chilly on hers, but he kept a respectful distance, opening the gate neatly before her.

When they reached the door, he didn't release her hand. "May I call on you?" He asked without preamble.

She was trapped. She had no good reason to say no. Keeping face with the governor and his people was important. She could move in and out of both circles seamlessly still, and her social efforts with Miss Guthrie and others seemed to keep their interest out of her business. "That would be lovely, thank you," she found herself choking out the words with a bright smile.

Trent accepted this, bowed and was off with crisp, efficient steps. He blessedly did not insist on making plans, which suddenly occurred to Abigail as potentially problematic. She had no idea when he intended to call.

Oh dear.

* * *

Billy's ears perked up at the sound of opening doors and light, tinkling feminine laughter. Not that he had been drinking on the inn's balcony since he happened to see Abigail enter the governor's house for dinner. The few girls who had tried their luck with him had long since given up and left him to his cups. That dinner had taken far too long for his tastes. How long did it take rich people to eat their food? Fortunately, it took quite a bit of liquor to affect him.

He had nearly bolted to the servant's entrance of the home when he saw Abigail's cart and driver leave without her not half an hour after she arrived. Was she staying there? What on earth for? Reason got the better of him and he decided to settle in and wait. It was none of his business anyway. Yet, he stayed at his table, quietly drinking alone, with a weather eye on the governor's house down the main road.

There she was, standing on the house steps with the others and glowing like something far too pretty to be found on the streets of Nassau. She had done herself up for this. He saw her so often at the plantation, usually outside working with everyone else, he forgot what she looked like in a fancy dress, hair fixed up proper. Not that he didn't find her distractingly lovely up to her arms in potatoes and sweat and dirt.

She never asked anything of her people that she wouldn't do herself. He had been right in Savannah: she'd make one hell of a pirate if they let her on a boat.

The carriage pulled around the corner and some git in a Royal Navy coat and hat helped her in, then took the seat across from her. Billy's feet left the chair they'd been propped on and his cup landed hard on the table. From this distance, he vaguely recognized the man as Lieutenant Pierce, the new liaison between the colonial privateers and militia, and the crown. This wouldn't do at all. It was one thing for Abigail to remain friendly with these people. She had to at least maintain a facade of neutrality, but he'd seen this man. He'd seen him on the docks, marking down names for a press. He'd seen him set two armed militiamen on a boy caught trying rather badly to steal food from a cart. He'd also seen him set eyes on Abigail, blissfully unaware, and make every effort to intercept her every time she came into town.

At least Billy had the courtesy to let her conduct her business in peace.

Billy took one last pull on his drink before starting his rise from his chair. A firm hand landed on his shoulder, followed by a familiar face settling lazily into the chair Billy's feet had been propped on.

Billy sat back down, his jaw grinding. "Jack."

"Billy," Jack Rackham nodded amiably and raised his own cup in a toast. "I hear you're having a lovely evening." He tipped his eyebrows toward the empty bottle on the table. "We don't often have the pleasure of your patronage at our fine establishment; I thought I'd come say hello."

Billy didn't respond. His eyes flickered back to the street to the rapidly retreating coach. Every muscle in his body screamed at him to follow. Jack didn't need to turn his head to know what had Billy red along his neck and practically growling at him. "Miss Ashe did look lovely this evening," he remarked with that infuriating air of casualness. Billy could hardly stand socializing with the man on a good day and only found him tolerable when he was using that calculating mind to orchestrate ship movements and other operations. "But you know, if you go down there and kill a uniformed officer of the Royal Navy, you're not exactly going to be helping our cause."

Billy forced himself to relax. Jack was right. It was asinine anyway. He had no claim over Miss Ashe. "It's none of my business," he ground out.

Jack nodded with comically-pursed lips. "No, it's not. Besides, Anne is waiting in the alley under strict instructions to stop you if you look like you're going to do something stupid."

Billy snorted and poured himself the rest of his bottle. "I'd like to see her try."

"As would I," Jack raised his cup in a toast, which Billy met, reluctantly. "That would be a hell of a fight. But again, that would in no way help our cause, would it?"

The rum burned his throat but at least it, and Jack's annoying presence, gave him something else to think about. "No, I reckon Anne Bonny cutting me down at the knees would help no one."

Jack crossed his ankle over his knee and guffawed. "At least we agree on exactly how that fight would end."

After a moment, Billy gave into the chuckle.

He would ride by her house later, and if all was in good order, he would check on her at the end of the week as usual.

No sense in making a fool of himself over something that was most definitely none of his business.

* * *

Abigail awoke earlier than normal to the sound of an axe splitting wood over and over outside her house. The sun was only just peeking over the horizon, and Mr. Kruse typically didn't set any men to work this close to the house this early. She knew for a fact she had no need to add to her woodpile, so she drug herself sleepily out of bed and dressed quickly.

It was Friday, the day Billy typically stopped by, but too early in the month for another munitions or supply run for the Brethren. She scrubbed her teeth and attempted to smooth her hair into a neat plait. She'd gotten more proficient at styling it herself, but still sometimes garnered a pitying look from Kaya before the younger woman bade her to sit and let her fix it.

She didn't fully believe she would find Billy outside chopping firewood until she actually did. Over the noise of the axe and his focus on his task, he didn't notice her presence, which gave her a moment to quietly appreciate the sight he cut. Tall and muscular, the way his shoulders flexed and strained against the rough homespun of his shirt. She had still not quite gotten used to the way he commanded an easy grace with just about every activity he undertook. Even something as simple as splitting firewood was beautiful.

He must have sensed her, or seen her in his periphery, because he stopped mid-swing and turned to face her, suddenly unsure of himself when just a moment ago he had been so very sure of what he was doing. "I'm sorry, I woke you." He gestured lamely to the block. "It was here, I should have moved it…"

"It's fine," Abigail smiled easily at him. "Though, I think my supply is enough for several months." The pile was indeed mountainous.

He winced a little at it. She had a point. If she had more people living with her, people to cook for, more water to boil, it might not be so excessive. "The rainy season starts this week. It'll be colder; you'll be indoors more." Yeah, that sounded right.

"Oh," her voice squeaked and she pushed her palms against her skirts, flattening imaginary wrinkles. "Thank you for thinking of me, I might not have known until I was bogged down."

"I'm surprised no one has mentioned it." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Ah, so he had heard. It had been days since Trent's request to call on her and she hadn't seen hide nor hair of either man.

"I'll make sure all this is covered so it stays dry," he went on, saving her before she started babbling excuses about Trent.

Not that she owed him an excuse. Since Trent's overture, she had agonized over it, until angrily deciding that Billy had more than enough opportunity to make his intentions clear, or known, or anything at all. Instead, he continued to show up like clockwork, all business about the plantation and farm, or business from the Brethren. She wanted to believe this was his way of showing some manner of affection, but dammit, it had been months. At least Trent had the courtesy to declare himself.

She went inside and returned with a mug of cool water for him. He took it with a grateful nod and finished it in one long pull. The way his jaw and throat worked while drinking was more distracting than she cared to admit. She took the cup back and they were locked in a now familiar awkward silence. For the first time since he'd come back to Nassau, they were alone.

"I-" she started.

"We've got a run coming up," he spoke over her, then winced when he realized he'd cut her off. She quirked her head, silently asking him to go on. "It's over land, a little unusual for us, but too good to pass up."

Abigail frowned and tried to derive his meaning. She'd found communication in Nassau was as rife with mixed and hidden messages as the circles in dame school. "Will you be gone long?"

"A week," he shrugged. "Maybe more. Madi's men are better this sort of thing; they'll be taking the lead."

"And they need you for this?" Billy hadn't explicitly told her his role within the Brethren, but she'd pieced together for herself just how important he'd become.

He flashed a bright white smile at her. He was always impressed by her ability to keep up with the subtleties of their games. "Maybe, maybe not. It's important and I'd like to have my own eyes on its completion."

Abigail hummed a noncommittal response and set the mug aside on her porch. His words struck her as strange, but she already knew Billy wouldn't tell her more than absolutely necessary.

"What's wrong?" his voice brought her back out of her own thoughts.

"Nothing." She couldn't fake a smile with him and his raised brows at her response. She didn't respond to his look except to take a deep breath and bite her lip. What could she possibly say?

"Are you worried about us?" There was more than a dash of teasing in his voice.

She was a lord's daughter for crying out loud, and would not be cornered, blushing and stammering. "Yes. And I believe I'll miss you if you don't come by next week."

"Hm," Billy looked down at his feet and sucked his teeth. Then he looked back at up her, with that same look of belayed hope he wore any time he actually managed to express himself. "You won't be too busy with...him?"

Abigail could have laughed, but she didn't think Billy could take it. He couldn't even say the man's name. "I don't have any plans for the week at present, no." He harrumphed and thumbed the axe, averting his eyes from her again. She couldn't tell if he was pleased or more annoyed now, but tension was rolling off him in waves. He wanted to take action, but couldn't bring himself to move.

"Goedemorgen, Minnares!" Kaya's cheery voice broke through the humid morning air.

"Sawubona, Kaya!" Abigail forced a pleasant greeting in return but sighed when she saw Billy grunt and return to his work. Whatever he wanted to say or do, he'd never do while they were chaperoned.

She joined Kaya in the house and set to her own work for the day. There was nothing to do but wait until she could speak to him again, even if that meant waiting for him to get back this operation the Brethren had cooked up for him.

* * *

It was another three days before Trent came to call for the first time. Like all of their interactions, it was mostly silent, with brief spurts of his blunt, semi-insulting commentary. There were only so many activities in Nassau for a young, unsupervised couple that fell within the realm of propriety. Abigail suggested a walk along a quietly-trafficked, but lovely beach. He had frowned and even wrinkled his nose when she kicked off her shoes to walk in the sand.

The conversation strayed into politics. Abigail was learning quickly that Trent's interests were fairly limited to the navy and how the navy could support civil affairs, and not a whole lot else. She demurred as best she could, but Trent was not a creature easily deterred. When he returned her to her home, he took the liberty of kissing her hand before leaving. Like everything else about him, she found it cold and vaguely distasteful.

The next day, he took another liberty, but this was something Abigail could not allow.

She and Kaya were chatting quietly - she was doing well adapting to Kaya's mix of Dutch and her native tongue - shucking peas. They had more than enough to send a boy with a full basket down to the market to sell.

Kaya noticed them first. "Bheka, het is de militie." _Look, it's the militia_. She frowned and set her basket aside.

It was not quite the militia, but lead by Trent, always in uniform, and they were all members of the militia, so Kaya's observation wasn't exactly wrong. They weren't armed, but five men approaching her property unannounced presented a certain concern that had haunted the back of her mind since the resistance first began in full.

"Good morning, Miss Ashe," Trent called from the gate.

Abigail stepped off the porch and walked to the gate, but didn't open it. She was dressed for a day she expected to spend hard at work and in her surprise had forgotten to remove her shabby apron. Trent's displeasure at her appearance was written all over his face. "Good morning." Her eyes drifted over the motley assortment of men who had the audacity to declare they were anything other than pirates. "I am so sorry, Lieutenant, but I wasn't expecting you."

He took her meaning well enough. "My apologies, Miss Ashe, but I simply could not stand the thought of you having to employ rebels to maintain your plantation. I hoped that perhaps you would allow my men to meet your Mr. Kruse, get a lay of the land. I'm certain you'll be pleased with their work and will be safer than with a bunch of pirates running loose so close to your home."

Mr. Kruse ambled to her side, no doubt alerted by Kaya. No one in her household had any great love for England. Trent, true to his station, acknowledged the other man with little more than a look, but waited for Abigail's answer.

She knew if she asked it of him, Mr. Kruse would keep these men off her land, at great cost to his own person, their ability to do business, her relationship with the governor and possibly even the forfeiture of her property. Trent knew it, too.

Mr. Kruse, ever her silent champion, followed her lead. When she stepped aside, he released the latch on the gate and admitted the men. "If you don't mind, Mr. Kruse can escort you."

Trent surprised her by jutting out a confident hand to Kruse, who shook it in return without hesitation. She wondered if she had judged him too harshly, if she was as unfair to him as her peers had been to her. He gave Mr. Kruse an overview of what he was looking to accomplish and they set off together, leaving Abigail to stew alone over the encounter.

Later that evening, Lieutenant Pierce admitted the five-man detail who had accompanied him to Miss Ashe's estate. Per his instructions, they had all maintained a diligent state of silent discretion throughout their investigation and the entire journey back until they prepared a formal report for him.

He waited a beat as they stood around, shuffling their feet and folding their hats in their hands. "Proceed."

Mr. Williams, a middling pudgy man who seldom found work on successful crews before Hornigold's militia stood up, stepped forward and cleared his throat. "Well, Sir, it's as you said. The unworked land is overgrown, but there's a trail tha' leads down to a small dock. Water probably runs right out to the sea."

"And you saw evidence it is being used?"

Williams looked for a few encouraging nods from his mates before confirming, "Yes, Sir. It's well-traveled and there was a pram tied on."

"And none of Mr. Kruse's men gave any indication that they use the trail or the dock?"

"No, Sir."

"Hm." Trent didn't care for this. Miss Ashe was quite pretty and, if she wasn't clearly supporting the Brethren, would make a fine bride. He liked her well enough. Courting her had been genuine, however short-lived. It seemed a waste, but his position came first. The intelligence she could provide would undoubtedly be critical, as would shutting down one of the Brethren's smuggling thoroughfares.

The other officers had been vexed over the matter of exactly how these men were staying comfortably armed and supplied with necessities despite the blockade until Trent had laughed out loud and stated the obvious. Miss Ashe had so successfully endeared herself to all of them, they were all reluctant to draw the clear conclusion that there could be nothing good or legal about the regular visits Billy Bones and other unpardoned pirates made to her land.

As far as he was concerned, this confirmed it.

The third part of his plan could now move forward.

* * *

Billy was tired. Tired and angry. Ten days spent deep in the New Providence jungle for nothing but dead men and an aching wound in his hip. Dr. Howell would have to see to it before he caught a fever.

Ten days for a false lead. He should have known the tip was too good to be true. They had confirmed, checked and triple-checked against their sources. Someone had worked hard to ensure they believed the information.

That someone would be very disappointed that most of the Brethren's men had emerged from the jungle and no members of the ambush had been so lucky. The bodies they identified were militiamen scrounged from the outskirts of Nassau. They weren't even seasoned sailors, let alone the type of men to stand against the well-salted warriors Madi brought to the brotherhood. Rackham was consistently right about one thing: the English simply could not stop themselves from underestimating them.

He was making his way back to the Barlow house to confer with the other leaders, and, God willing, rest. Maybe even wash. The number of horses tethered outside and lights coming from the house dampened his hopes for either prospect.

All talk ceased when he pushed the door open. The sheer number of people would have been enough to send up alarms, but the presence of Captain Flint, who preferred to remain on ship to stay wary of the blockade, and Mr. Kruse, stopped him.

"Oh good, they're not dead." Jack raised his glass to no one in particular.

Madi pushed back from her seat. "How many?" Right to the point.

Silver gave a gruff order to fetch Dr. Howell, but Billy waved him off. "Have him see to the men outside first. I made it this far." The effort of the fight then the hike back while wounded was rapidly catching up to him. He drug himself to the seat Silver offered, then began to unravel his tale for an audience that apparently already knew at least half the story. "Three dead." He didn't have the energy to look apologetic for Madi. "They waited until we were good and deep in the jungle, camped for the night, then launched their attack. Lucky for us, they were about as equipped for a fight as you'd expect a for bunch of farmers. What's happened here?" He directed the question to Mr. Kruse, who had watched him with grim patience throughout the brief story.

"We intercepted an order," Flint's hoarse voice answered instead. "The Admiralty has commanded all of His Majesty's ships leave Nassau within the week to confront Spain. The blockade will fall and only those loyal to the colonial militia will remain."

"What the fuck does that have to do with sending us on a suicide mission?" Billy snapped. The cramped space within the house smelled of cigar smoke and sweat. From Mr. Kruse's dark eyes boring into him and the angry tension permeating the room to the aching burn from the knife wound, Billy was feeling nauseous.

Silver and Kruse exchanged a quick, silent look that had Billy tensing in his seat. "In anticipation of this," Silver began carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal, "Lieutenant Pierce made a number of strategic moves to strengthen the militia and the governor's positions here, to include attempting to remove you, as well as as many members of our brotherhood as possible, and he has taken Miss Ashe for questioning."

It hit him harder than a stray cannonball. This was the dark, niggling fear that had lurked in his thoughts every time he saw her. It had made him grind his teeth and argue - loudly - after the shock wore off when she wildly suggested the Brethren make use of the small river cutting through her land. Flint wouldn't look up from the table, but Billy had known and sailed with him long enough to read him like an open book. Outwardly he was cool, but his mouth was just a little too tight, his shoulders a little too drawn. The dark fury he usually spared only for thoughts of Thomas and Miranda Hamilton swirled in his eyes.

"Where is she?" Billy was deadly calm. He didn't need to ask why she'd been taken.

"We wait until the fleet leaves the harbor." Flint still didn't look up.

Billy stood up so fast a handful of pistols and swords were drawn around the room. Flint finally directed his gaze upward to let Billy confront him to his face. "Fuck. Waiting."

Jack grimaced and waved a hand downward, the weapons followed. "How about we let cooler heads prevail, eh, Billy?"

"Fuck you, Jack." His hand was on the hilt of his sword. His chest rose and fell too hard with each breath.

"Captain Flint is right," Madi interjected. "We have been in conference since she was taken and we cannot afford to assault the entirety of the royal fleet. We must wait."

Billy turned his attention back to Flint and pointed an accusing finger at the older man. "I helped you burn Charles Town to the fucking ground. Then I helped you murder magistrates and anyone who stood in our way all up and down the American coast, for _them_."

Flint didn't break his gaze. "I haven't forgotten."

"Billy," Silver eased his way back in, "if we don't wait, we will have to launch our entire fleet. And we run the risk of losing multiple ships, God knows how many men, even Miss Ashe in the process. There's a better way."

Silver nudged the chair Billy had abandoned with his good foot. He reluctantly sat back down with a heavy thud.

"Let's get back to work," Flint grumbled.

Jack clasped his hands together. "Ah yes, and let's not burn all of New Providence down in the process, shall we?"

* * *

Lieutenant Pierce shifted uncomfortably under Eleanor's leonine gaze. He had never met a woman who made him feel so thoroughly unmanned. Governor Rogers seemed to have no problems handling her. He would have to consult with him privately about that.

She was seething at him. He could actually feel her rage like heat radiating off her directly to him. First had been the auspices of his meeting with Rogers, then had been his appearance: the bloody scratches down his cheek clearly came from a woman's hand. A woman like Eleanor would assume he had provoked the situation.

He sat in silence while Rogers made notes, frowning, and Eleanor fumed at him. She fumed until she burst from it.

"Are you some kind of fucking idiot?"

"Eleanor!" Woodes' scolding was halfhearted at best.

"What?" She whirled on him. "Not only has he wrongly imprisoned one of our most prominent citizens, he's provoked the entirety of the Brethren. If you think Captain Flint and Billy Bones will let this go unanswered, you're as stupid as he is. They'll torch every ship in the fucking harbor just to hurt you now."

Pierce had the audacity to roll his eyes at her outburst. "Madame, frankly you and Governor Rogers are both fortunate Miss Ashe is the rebel I chose to interrogate. Your choice to allow the likes of Rackham and Bonny to walk free, in my opinion, makes you complicit in the ongoing plague of the Bahamas."

Eleanor's eyes and nostrils flared, fists balled at her sides. Woodes stopped her before she started with a silent mouthed " _No_."

Woodes did, however, sit up straight at his desk and set his pen down, watching the young officer with a new appreciation for the man. "Lieutenant Pierce, I understand your zeal for halting piracy, but any situation in which lives and livelihoods are at stake is infinitely more complicated than to simply hang everyone who breaks the law. Rackham and Bonny are supremely well-liked, no longer of interest to Spain as they no longer possess their gold, and if I were to hang every criminal in Nassau, we wouldn't have a colony left."

Pierce laughed under his breath. "You sound just like him." Woodes sat back, patiently waiting for him to continue. "Flint, that is. Frankly, I don't care for it. I don't believe everyone here is engaged in criminal pursuits. For all her charms and upbringing, Miss Ashe still chose to consort with pirates. She chose to support the Brethren and their cause. She even supported an active smuggling ring. How can we expect any rule of law, any civilization to take root, if we let them redefine the laws however it suits them and their baser needs?"

"What happened to your face, Lieutenant?" Eleanor cocked her head and sucked her teeth. Baser needs, indeed.

A muscle in his jaw twitched but he wouldn't be cowed by a woman. "Miss Ashe did not care for being asked to stay on the _Antilles_ for questioning."

"After being at the hands of people like Ned Lowe and Charles Vane, I'd imagine not," Woodes attempted again to rein Eleanor back. If he wasn't careful, she'd probably beat him to death with her bare hands in his office. That would be a tricky one to explain to the Admiralty.

Pierce shifted in his seat. "If you are questioning my treatment of Miss Ashe…"

Eleanor snorted but Woodes spoke. "I'm certain you are behaving exactly as would be expected of a gentleman of your rank and position. However, as the regional governor, I will need to see the girl for myself. In case she presses any legal complaints, it will be important, you understand."

"Of course." Pierce was too confident. "You need only see my men at the dock and they will see you aboard. No need to call ahead."

After he left, Eleanor was still fuming.

Woodes looked up over his work at her. "Don't worry, we're of like mind."

"If he hurts her, this whole island will revolt."

"I know." He finished penning his missive. "That is why I am working fast."

* * *

Abigail didn't look up when the guard slid a plate of food toward her before quietly leaving just as he'd entered. She kept herself as small as she could, huddled under the desk where Trent had left her in irons. It was hard to tell where her fear stopped and the humiliation started.

She didn't even rate the dignity of a locked room.

They came like clockwork to give her food and dump the chamber pot. In three days, they were the only men to enter or leave the cabin. That gave her plenty of time to stew over all the horrible things that might happen to her. Hanging had been Trent's primary suggestion, though the way he'd grabbed her and pressed his body to hers before she took a swipe at him offered other awful alternatives.

Her violent rejection of his advance had earned her this new position, chained to the foot of his desk like an animal. The brig was "unsuitable for a lady" and she got a chiding about making a bed she must sleep in a tone that would have made her teachers proud. Now she struggled to stay awake, fighting off sleep at every turn. When she drifted off, her mind flooded with images of Ned Lowe's dead eyes, and his laughter as he let his crew pass her around like a piece of meat just to show her he could. "If your father doesn't pay, we'll still get our money's worth out of you, little bird," he breathed hot and hard into her ear.

Trent had taken on the same wild quality, which genuinely shocked her. He was so distant and restrained whenever she'd seen him before, even his hands felt chilly. When he had her brought to him for questioning, she thought little of it. Everything he did was so formal, why should this be any different? She knew what they'd seen on her property and what he would ask her about, but having a private dock and employing locals for extra help were not yet crimes in Nassau.

After a few murmured "no's" and noncommittal answers, he laughed in her face. Trent Pierce had had enough. "You know, I really wanted to believe that you were just naïve." His mouth ticked up in a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "If you were naïve, then you could be brought back into the fold. I could marry you, we'd both be better for it. We'd have the money to refit another ship and even show these fucking pirates they can't keep their filthy hands on _anything_ English."

Her breathing grew labored. She started to stand and object to his coarse language and behavior, but he was behind her with a hand on her shoulder, shoving her back into the chair. "We're not done yet, Miss Ashe." He stepped around the chair, leaning a lazy hip against his desk. His hand moved from her shoulder to push a lock of hair from her face. "You keep a bed with Billy Bones, and you're not leaving until I know everything you know."

Abigail's mouth fell open. She gaped up at him in askance. "I don't -"

"You don't have to be coy with me," he cut her off, his fingers gripped her chin too hard. "I can make this better for you. I can see to it that you don't hang for piracy along with them."

She jerked her head away and shoved herself sideways out of the chair and his reach, nearly falling in the process. As she stumbled to her feet, vice-like hands snatched her by her shoulders and whipped her around to face him, before he shoved her back against the bulkhead. His hands found her waist, bruising everything he touched and then his body was on hers, his mouth scalding just over her neck. "Is this what you want?" When she whimpered and tried to get away, he only clamped down harder. "A few rounds with the likes of Lowe and Vane gave you a taste for this sort of thing? Oh, I've known a few women like you, no better than a dockside tro-"

His words twisted into a snarl as her fingers dug across his cheek, cutting a bloody trail. They both froze and stared at each other in horror for a moment before his rage overtook him. The back of his hand cracked against her face and she was sent reeling to the floor. The next thing she knew, two militiamen were shackling her in irons while Pierce declared her hysterical and a danger to herself.

She hissed with pain when she lifted her hands to reach for the plate and the weight of the irons dug into the raw, bloody abrasions she'd rubbed into herself during her first day of captivity. Perhaps Trent was right about being a danger to herself.

The single boiled potato was growing cold already, but it might help her stay awake a few minutes longer. A glance up toward the windows showed only darkness. For all she knew, Trent had her on midnight rations only. She had lost track of the day and hour during her initial distress.

Her waking hours gave her plenty of time to think. It took almost all of her effort to keep her mind from wandering down dark paths, reliving her worst memories and imagining nightmare possibilities for her future.

At first, she had imagined a rescue coming. Every scratch at the door sent her scrambling to her knees, desperate to see a friendly face bursting in any moment. But each hour passed, and then days passed, without rescue. She even thought she'd heard the sound of a fleet in the harbor, with all the whistles and calls and flapping canvas sails, but the sounds had faded to silence and she was, yet again, still left chained up on the _Antilles_.

In her daydreams, her rescue, of course, came in the form of Billy, bursting through the door and sweeping her away. It made no sense, to be sure. The ship was never less than half-manned. Whatever strange loyalty Flint had toward her would not push him into the stupidity of starting a war for her, certainly not with the approval of the entire brotherhood. Captain Teach most definitely wouldn't give two figs about her fate, but would care very much about the fate of his crew and his ships. She was friendly with Madi and John Silver, but that didn't warrant mounting a dangerous rescue. That left only Billy with any chance he might be driven to something reckless for her. Even that she doubted in her darkest turns.

Though at the moment, chewing on the dry, cold potato, she felt sure. The confidence surged in her, warm and bright like a sunny day. It had been a warm day, still early enough to be pleasantly cool, when Billy's hands had stopped hers in the dirt of her small farm. "Those aren't ready yet," he smiled at her, all bright white teeth in a halo of golden sunlight.

Her face fell and her shoulders slumped. "I never know when they're ripe. I pulled up a whole row of potatoes that weren't fit to eat last week."

Billy chuckled, but restrained himself when her face remained stormy. "It's easy." He took a quick stock of the neat rows and found what he was looking for. "The tops should look like this."

She followed and sank to her knees in the dirt next to him. She ran a hand over the dry, brown root tops and frowned. "Aren't these dead?"

He sank a large hand into the dirt and came back up with a large, ripe, brown potato. He proffered it out to her with a bright grin. "See? When the tops go bad, that's when you know."

Abigail took it, cradling it in her hands, and then let out a reluctant laugh. "I've been eating green potatoes for weeks because I was too embarrassed to ask. How do you even know this?"

Billy sat back on his haunches, and pressed his lips together, watching her with a hint of amusement. "I wasn't always a sailor, you know." She tilted her head curiously at him. "My parents were agitators, but we had to eat. My father showed me how to tend a garden."

His eyes fell away from her and his brightness faded a bit. Every now and again he mentioned his family and life before being pressed into service. It always brought a dark shadow over him. Her heart sank, she hadn't meant to make him sad, at least not over potatoes. She reached a hand out to his, which he took, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand.

Something twinkled in his gaze and before she knew it, he smeared a streak of dark, wet soil across her nose and cheek with his other hand. Abigail stared up at him, stunned, before bursting into giggles and flinging a handful of dirt back at him. He raised an arm in a half-hearted defense, laughing with her.

Abigail finished her potato, chewing over the memory and clinging to it. His refusal to see her alone notwithstanding, he would come for her. She would not swing over the town square like Charles Vane had, and no one on this ship would put hands on her again.

Voices at the door startled her. They would be back for her plate, but they weren't usually this noisy. The door swung open and she froze, taken aback by the three figures that filed into the room.

"As you can see," Trent sighed, "she went hysterical when I brought her in for an interview. She attempted to assault me, then made attempts on her own life. I thought it best to restrain her here for the time being, where she can be safely observed and can't hurt herself further."

Woodes Rogers appeared unmoved. A sharp intake of breath and flared eyes revealed Eleanor's thoughts on the situation.

Abigail locked eyes with Trent, and three days of terror, anger and exhaustion boiled over. She surged to her feet with a strangled scream, only to be yanked back down by the too-short chains. The three jumped, startled by her outburst and Trent shrugged apologetically. "It is exactly as I said."

"Leave me with her," Eleanor commanded without looking at Pierce.

The officer recoiled and smirked. "Miss Guthrie, with all due respect…"

"All due respect nothing," she whirled. "Let me have a moment with the girl. It's the least you can do after the way she's been treated."

Woodes nodded. "Indeed, perhaps Eleanor can reason with her while we discuss the finer points of this situation above deck."

Pierce cast a wary gaze between them and Abigail. He had authority on this ship, but Rogers was the territorial governor. He would need to pick his battles carefully. With silent consent, he opened the door to escort Rogers back to the main deck.

The door clicked shut and Eleanor dropped all pretense. She marched to Abigail, fishing a manacle key out of her skirts. "Can you swim?"

Abigail swayed on her knees. All at once, Eleanor seemed to be moving too fast. It was too much for her to process. The irons fell away, but Eleanor caught them before they could thud and draw attention. "Can you swim?" She repeated the question with more force. Abigail nodded.

Eleanor was on her feet again, now opening one of the large windows. She brought a lantern to the window, covered and uncovered it three times, before setting it on a nearby table and returning her attention to Abigail. She winced at the younger woman, still struggling to stand and offered an arm. "You'll need to remove your petticoats."

"What?" Abigail finally croaked a response to the flurry of blonde activity in the form of Eleanor Guthrie.

Eleanor slid her hands around the waist of Abigail's skirt and began the work of unfastening the heavy material without permission. "They'll weigh you down, and you need to swim fast." The underclothes pooled at her feet.

"Why are you doing this?"

Eleanor hardened, her eyes flickering to the open window. "I rescued you once for the good of this island, I'll do it again."

Abigail followed her eyes to the window and her stomach did a flip. "I can't...I can't climb out there. I can't swim all that way by myself."

Eleanor huffed, even looked a shade amused. "Who said you'll be doing all this by yourself?"

They both turned toward the window at the thump, followed by the large hand on the windowsill. She knew it was him before he pulled himself up. From the breadth of his hand to the leather wrap at his wrist, the muscles offset by water rivulets running down his arms, his dripping wet head only confirmed what she already knew.

He grunted with the effort of climbing up the back of the ship, still focused on getting through the window when Abigail rushed forward. "Billy!"

"Shut the fuck up!" Eleanor hissed and Abigail came up short with a hand over her mouth. "If they hear us and this turns into a fight, neither I nor Woodes can stop what will come next."

Billy swung a long leg over the windowsill and paused long enough to drink in the sight of Abigail, dirty, tired but alive, before him. A beat later, she was in his arms, oblivious to his ocean-soaked clothes. He cradled her head in his hand, the other splayed across her back, whispering meaningless words of comfort. She was shaking, but not crying, something Eleanor probably thanked God for.

"You have to go, _now_ ," Eleanor snapped, barely above a whisper.

Billy gently pushed Abigail from his embrace. He caught sight of the bruise on her cheek and the bloody abrasions on her wrists. Something inside him cracked open. He was on his feet, vision fading to red, making his way toward the door before he realized what he was doing.

Eleanor skidded to a halt in front of him, her hands on his chest. "Now is not the fucking time, Billy." Her voice and her nearness stalled him long enough to clear the red clouds of rage. "You cannot help her if you're dead."

He gritted his teeth and swallowed the impulse to correct this wrong right here and now. He pulled the length of rope looped over his shoulders like a seasoned rigger and returned to the window, tying off their escape route. Abigail had to shake her head. She'd wrapped herself around him as tight as she could and hadn't even noticed the heavy ropes.

He sent one leg back out the window, then turned back to Abigail and held a hand out to her. "C'mon."

She was struck with deja vu. The last time he had offered his hand this way had been in Savannah at the magistrate's house. He had the same look of grim seriousness and worry written on his face. As Abigail approached, he turned his attention back to Eleanor. "This isn't fucking over, you know that, right?"

Eleanor only rolled her eyes and muttered, " _Go_ already."

Abigail froze at the window, but Billy had her hand in his and his other hand on the small of her back. "Just sit on the sill and put your feet here," he tipped his head toward the wooden ledge he rested his own foot on. "Hold on up here," he guided her hands to another ledge over the window. Billy didn't remove his hands from her waist until she was securely in place. "Hold yourself for just a moment."

Next to her, he shuffled himself out the window. The salt air blew her hair and skirts into a massed tangle. The wood under her fingers was moist, probably all the time. She never would have considered herself particularly strong, but being locked up and fed next to nothing for three days left her more unsteady than she might have been. Her palms were getting sweatier by the moment and she didn't dare look down at the black, choppy water below.

"Alright," Billy kept his voice low. He held out his free hand to her and kept his other tight on the rope. "I need you to hang onto my shoulders."

The space between her and his hand wavered into a vast expanse. One false step and she'd be tumbling into the water, hurting herself and alerting the entire ship of their attempted escape. "Abigail, you can do it," Billy said, pushing his feet against the bulkhead to get closer to her. She swallowed her fear and reached her hand out to his, letting him gently, slowly ease her back across the ledge until he could slide his arm around her waist. Abigail studied his body, her brow drawn in confusion as to how she'd navigate the next part. "You're just going to have to throw a leg over and hang on. I'm not going to let you fall, sweetheart."

His voice was firm and steady, like the arm encircling her waist, pressing her into his torso. The haze from her captivity and sudden release cleared: she never felt safer than when she was with him. She slid one arm over his broad shoulder, took a deep breath, then followed with her legs around his waist. His long arm followed under her leg until she breathlessly confirmed that she had a good hold, then he had both hands on the rope and was slowly walking them down the back of the ship.

"Just like being a kid on your father's shoulders, right?" It took him a little too much effort to crack the joke. Hand under hand, foot under foot.

She buried her face his neck to stifle the desperate, sleep-deprived snort of laughter. "You clearly didn't actually meet my father in Charles Town."

The cool water lapped at the hem of her soiled dress, then rose until they were both submerged enough for her to release him without causing a splash. Billy was, of course, comfortably treading water, but Abigail struggled. She seldom had occasion to swim, less so this deep in a heavy garment. He ventured a look back up at the ship and saw no reason to panic.

"C'mon." Under the water, his hand found her waist again, pulling her back to him as he began a steady, quiet sidestroke toward the shore. Every time she attempted to kick or paddle, she seemed to throw off his steady rhythm more than help, so she gave up and settled her head against his chest, letting him carry her along.

The water splashed against her face, but it felt only cleansing, like it was wiping away the past three days. She didn't even register the sting of saltwater against the wounds on her wrists. Abigail was, at least for the moment, safe.

They slowed and he lowered his legs, but the water was still so deep it covered his shoulders. A few more yards and they were both walking, struggling through the small, crashing waves. Abigail almost lost her footing in the surf, but Billy was right there, every step. They finally made their way up the shore, sodden and cold. Billy held her hand clasped tight, marching steadily onward into the darkened jungle.

He stopped when she gave a gentle tug against his forward momentum. The past day had been a blur of activity, punctuated with having to actively stop himself from stealing off to the _Antilles_ and taking her back by force. He didn't trust Rogers, he especially didn't trust Eleanor, or any parlay they offered. He hadn't felt any confidence about their plan until this very moment. Every second of pulling Abigail from that cabin, down the ship and swimming to shore had been an eternity: which moment would be the one that the alarm would sound and they'd both be dead? But here they both stood on the dark, empty beach. She was drenched, shivering and so very small.

Abigail hugged her arms around herself against the sudden cold of being soaked to the bone and out in the open. She looked beyond Billy into the imposing jungle. She trusted him blindly, but she was beyond tired. "Where are we going?" Her voice cracked from swallowed seawater.

Understanding flashed across Billy's face and eased back to her. "We secured a little house. No one knows about it but the Brethren. We'll stay there a few days until they send for us, that's when it'll be safe to take you home. It's not far," he tossed a look back into the overgrowth. "I know the way."

"You'll stay with me?"

Something tightened in Billy's chest. "I won't leave you."

Abigail stopped shivering, bolstered herself and started off in the direction Billy had originally been leading her. With a small smile she didn't see, Billy stepped off at her side, leading the way.

It was a long walk, longer than she anticipated. Of course, she reasoned that her perspective might be distorted. She was already fatigued and hungry, and without any clue where they were going, the journey down the damp, overgrown trail seemed to drag on in dark silence. She had so many questions to ask him, but it took all of her energy and focus to keep up with his long strides.

He pushed through a swath of palm fronds and held them away from her, and a tiny cottage materialized. It was pitch dark inside, covered in vines and ferns and all manner of growth, but fresh cuttings through the most excess of the plant life, a small stack of wood and a few barrels of fresh water indicated that someone had been there recently. Billy was stepping around her and into the house while she remained frozen, chewing her lip and studying the exterior.

Candlelight sputtered to life in the window and Billy was back outside scooping up a few logs. When he saw her still rooted in place, his lips pursed and brow furrowed. "You've got fresh clothes inside. I'll give you privacy to change. You don't have to worry."

Abigail took a deep breath and forced herself to move past Billy's looming, increasingly concerned countenance. One of her own trunks sat next to the small bed. She palmed through it, feeling strange and out of place in this tiny, one-room house. "Who…?"

"Kaya packed it for you." He responded from the small stove, stoking the smaller flames. He turned to see her clutching a robe, face drawn and crestfallen. "They're all fine," he said quickly.

He nodded to himself and stepped outside to let her change. He spent more time outside than necessary, but was far too nervous to risk walking in on her in a compromising position and making her feel worse and more trapped than she already had been. By the time he re-entered the little dwelling - a shack that perhaps had once been used as a stopping point for merchants crossing the interior of the island before better routes came into use - she was fully asleep on the bed. She looked like she had only intended to sit, but couldn't resist the siren's call of sleep a moment longer.

At first he smiled, a small, toothless turning of his lips. After the past few days, it was a blessing to see her safe and relaxed, looking so peaceful. Then he saw her shoes still on her feet, her hair still in salt water-crusted tangles and those awful abrasions on her wrists. Billy moved as silently and gently as possible, taking the liberty of removing her shoes and pulling a blanket over her.

Billy took a seat on the straw pallet on the ground at the opposite end of the room. This whole plan had seemed royally fucked as far as he could tell, but he hadn't been able to offer better alternatives. At least this way he knew she was safe. Gunn would come and get them when Rogers and the Brethren secured their deal, and Pierce was no longer an immediate danger. His blood boiled at the thought that someone else might be the one to put Pierce down, or worse, that Pierce might weasel his way out of the Caribbean untouched.

Oh no, that was not going to happen. Pierce was going to pay for his spectacular showing at further destabilizing the situation in Nassau, and managing to piss off the territorial governor and rebellion leadership in one fell swoop. Rogers couldn't afford to have his leadership over the island fragmented by some arrogant officer with no oversight, even less experience and something to prove. Neither party could afford what would happen to New Providence Island if and when the Spanish caught wind of their internal disarray.

The idiot had made himself the common enemy. More importantly, he had done it all in the most cowardly fashion imaginable. Billy was going to enjoy answering this slight.

Abigail slept through the night in fits and starts. With every toss and turn, every whimper and cry, Billy's resolve solidified.

Trent Pierce was a fucking dead man.


	4. Chapter 4

"Just a little bit further," Billy urged Abigail on.

After a cold breakfast of bread and cheese, and a drink Billy insisted was coffee "how they make it on the ship," Billy had turned a peculiar shade of pink, then asked if Abigail would like to bathe.

Abigail first panicked with embarrassment - how badly could she look and smell after three days on a boat and a midnight swim for him to ask that? After that, she panicked a little more when she took a quick stock of their little abode and realized there was no tub, and the fresh water barrels were certainly not enough to provide both a bath and drinking water. She made a choked sound, struggling for the right words.

"Kaya said you'd want that," Billy cleared his throat and made himself busy putting the food back away. It was a slight lie. He'd reminded Kaya to pack whatever Miss Ashe might need to bathe because he knew firsthand how uncomfortable it felt to sit around in your own filth and crusted salt. Kaya had practically hissed at him that she was already doing it, having her own experience with that feeling. Then she stormed up to him with an impressively threatening finger on such a small woman, promising him pain worse than death if she found out he took advantage of the situation.

Billy believed her. If Kaya didn't do it herself, Jackson Kruse would certainly help. For a woman who had been so thoroughly rejected by her own people, Abigail had made quite the little family for herself in Nassau, including a mess of pirates who all seemed to agree they owed her their protection.

She was still sitting at the battered two-person table looking confused. "There's um," Billy swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing against his throat, "there's a small freshwater lagoon not far from here. It's fed by a waterfall, runs out over down the hills, so it's clean water."

"Oh." It came out softer than she intended. This was a problem she'd never faced before and given Billy's fidgeting, it was new to him, too. She had been taken prisoner not once but three times now, survived multiple battles, started a business and even taken part in smuggling. She was nothing if not a woman up to new challenges.

Now they were back to wandering through the New Providence jungle. Billy carried the small bundle she'd packed - a towel, fresh clothes, a bar of soap. He'd taken it from her wordlessly as soon as they left the cottage.

The sound of water was getting louder, overpowering the insects and wildlife that created a cacophony this far from the more civilized parts of the island.

"Here we are." Billy stepped aside to let her pass. It was a nice little spot, and incredibly convenient. He wouldn't have to worry about running out of water for any reason. Billy realized belatedly that Abigail was standing by the pool, chewing on her bottom lip. "Right, um," he thrust her bundle at her and turned away. "I'll be over...here, shout if you need anything." He gestured vaguely back the way they'd come.

By the time he cut a shoot of wild sugar cane to chew on and sat on the ground, he heard the first break in the water discordant with the steady flow from the small waterfall that fed the lagoon. He took a hard bite on the plant, trying to his damnedest to concentrate on the taste of the cane and not wonder exactly what Abigail might look like at this exact moment. He wanted to smack himself almost every time he spoke to her. Surely, if Mr. Gates was still alive, he'd have smacked him by now. She managed to reduce him to a blushing, stuttering boy more often than he cared to admit.

He was a pirate, for chrissakes, and a damn good one. He'd had women, though not as many as his mates, and hadn't been this nervous around one since Gates took him to the brothel for the first time. Billy told himself it was because Abigail was a lady, or at least had been, and would have been out of his league no matter what path his life had taken.

Abigail coming to Nassau presented an unexpected problem for him: he knew she would let him in, but he also knew he would be the final nail in the coffin that was _this_ life for her. Abigail could get her affairs sorted and still return, or at least make a better life in a better colony. She would not have that option if she entangled herself with someone like Billy Bones. More importantly, Billy wasn't sure he'd be able to let her go.

His head jerked back toward the pond when he heard a quiet whimper. He was on his feet when he heard another, and moving quickly when the quiet whimper turned into a louder cry of frustration and pain.

Abigail sat on a large, flat submerged rock in the surprisingly deep lagoon. Here it was up to her waist, so she felt less exposed in her thin chemise. She'd started with a rinse, then rubbed soap over every part of her face and body she could reach. Finally, she got to her hair. It had grown long and wild since she came to Nassau, but at the moment it was a long, matted mess.

Every attempt at running the brush through any knot or lock of hair only made her more frustrated. Every failed attempt reminded her of how little she could help herself. She couldn't even get dressed properly without a maid. What had she been thinking, trying to run a business? She'd had every opportunity to retire to a small country house. No matter what she did, how she approached the problem, she still ended up in shackles at some maniac's mercy.

She ripped her comb savagely through her hair. Whatever soap she'd used hadn't been enough, or she just wasn't being patient. The comb tore at her hair and she even broke off a few wooden bristles. Her shoulders shook with strangled noises somewhere between cries and sobs. When she ripped the comb free, she bent it in her hands, struggling against its solid construction before crying out and throwing it into the brush. It didn't go far.

She sank her hands into her hair and started pulling at the roots. The pain felt solid and malleable, something she could control. Pieces were breaking off in her hands. The more force she could muster, the more it burned and stung.

Abigail didn't notice the splashing, but she did notice when she was out of the water in Billy's arms.

She was too bewildered to speak, her hands flying to cover herself, but his eyes were busy scanning the water. "What's wrong? Was there a snake? Did you get bit?"

When she didn't respond, he finally looked at her. Her brown eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, searching him, unsure. There clearly wasn't anything in the water. "Sorry, I heard...I thought maybe you got hurt." Abigail continued to stare up at him, silent and shaking, her hands clutched at her chest. Billy slowly realized he was still standing up to his knees in water, holding her. He made a dissatisfied noise and set her on her feet on the dirt shore. He fetched her towel and held it out without looking at her.

It left his hand, followed by a small, "Thank you."

By wordless agreement, they made their way back to the cottage. She sat in a damp heap on one of the two dilapidated wooden chairs, still wrapped like a cocoon in the large towel. Abigail wasn't aware of what Billy was doing until a large tan hand held out a tin mug for her.

Abigail took it and caught a strong whiff of alcohol before she took a drink. At her recoil, Billy raised his own mug. "Just rum. Thought you could use a drink."

"I've never had it before." Abigail pondered the cup in her hands, then shrugged and took a tentative sip. Billy snorted when she sputtered and gasped. "It burns."

Billy grinned into his drink. "You get used to it."

Abigail took another sip, and then another, letting the drink warm her from the inside out. "I apologize, you shouldn't have seen that outburst."

Billy took another pull from his own mug, finishing it. He could butcher just about any animal for meat, mend his own clothes, navigate without assistance, climb any rigging, lay down accurate fire with any canon, rifle or pistol, and even make tactical decisions that put Flint to shame.

But comforting a woman was new.

He bent down on one knee before her, forcing her to look him in the eye. "I know what it's like, Abigail. You don't have to apologize to me."

Billy's face held something raw and honest, not unlike the beverage he'd offered her. "I thought it was over." She took another sip. "I thought I _finally_ had some measure of control over my own life, but I'm still just a thing they can take and use and throw away whenever it suits them."

It was probably inappropriate, but they were way past propriety, so Billy sank a hand into her slowly drying hair, rubbing his thumb across her cheek. "You are not a thing." She started to turn her head away but he pulled her back. "No, listen to me, you are not a thing. Men do awful shit to each other, you can't help that. But you have people here, good people who care about you."

Abigail brought a hand up to cover his. "Thank you."

Billy shifted to his other knee and drew himself incrementally closer. "I can't promise it's not going to happen again, but I swear to God, no one is ever going to try without consequence again. Pierce is going to pay for this. I'm just sorry it took so long to get you out of there."

Abigail turned her face into his hand on her cheek and pressed her lips against it in a soft kiss. "I knew you'd come."

Every argument he had as to why he had no business putting his hands on this woman evaporated in an instant. He pulled her face to his, their noses brushing and lips just grazing without full contact. His nearness, his strength, the familiar scent of sweat, ocean air and hemp rope that always followed him, it all made her feel safe and wanted. They'd drifted into each other's orbits and never left, slowly circling closer and closer, and unable to leave.

She ventured closer, pressing his lips to hers in a chaste kiss that instantly sent electricity right to her core. Billy answered with a sharp breath and had an arm around her, pulling her flush to him. He deepened the kiss, groaning with the sensation of her soft body against his, her malleable lips warm and wet and open for him.

Her tin mug clattered and splashed to the floor, only half-noticed by either of them, when she brought a hand to his chest, digging into his shirt, and her other hand fisting into his short golden hair. The hand on her back covered more area than she thought possible, and she could feel the barely-restrained strength pressing into her flesh. She was nearly out of her seat as they both worked to get closer to each other. His hand drifted lower, gripping her hip and thigh, a place she didn't know she enjoyed being touched but God if it wasn't making her head spin.

Abigail teased a tongue into his mouth, which he met voraciously. The noises she was making were sending him over the edge. It had been too long, just a few stolen kisses before he set hard boundaries for himself, designed to avoid this exact scenario. He wanted her too much. It distracted him when she wasn't around, and it was downright exhausting when she was. When she smiled at him, he wasn't up to his neck in shit and piracy. He wanted her to smile. He wanted to be the one to make her smile and feel good. Judging from her tiny fingers grasping at him, now taking a more adventurous exploration of his shoulders and chest, and the sounds she was making, he was successful.

In a swirl of motion not unlike how he'd pulled her from the lagoon, Abigail found herself in his arms for a beat before he lowered her onto the bed. Her head was spinning like a top and Billy felt like the only anchorage in a storm. Her fingers laced behind his head and she was pulling him down with her, their lips parting only to find better purchase on each other. When he braced over her, he stilled. He was no longer kissing her back.

"What…?" Abigail struggled to articulate anything at all.

Billy's eyes were dark with lust and uncertainty. He brushed a curling lock of hair away from her face with a shaky hand. "I can't promise you anything."

It took her a beat to catch his meaning. "Marriage has been off the table for me since Ned Lowe."

"That's just not true." He sat back, letting his hands drift down her legs. She was still mostly covered by the towel, but he could feel the warmth radiating off her skin. His mouth felt very, very dry. "I don't know how this is all going to end. I don't even know what's going to happen tomorrow." He took her hand and turned it over in his palm, running a light touch over the abrasion. "You already got hurt because of your association with me."

Abigail took her hand back and pushed herself up on her elbows. "Spend ten minutes with Lieutenant Pierce. He was looking for a reason to hurt me and would have found one regardless."

"I don't ever want to be that reason." Billy was solemn and intense.

"I chose to come here, Billy. I could have stayed in the Carolinas and lived out my life, quiet and comfortable, but I didn't. You said yourself I built a life here with people who care about me. I know you care for me. I can't see what's so wrong about that."

Billy's eyes flickered from her face, down her body then back up to her face again. His tongue darted out to his lips and he was looking at her in a way that made her extremely aware of her state of undress. "You and me, we cross this line, there's no going back."

The quirked brow and playful lilt to her lips was all the answer he needed. No shit there was no going back, there hadn't been for a long time.

In one fluid movement, he was back, braced over her, their mouths locked together in a tongue-clashing kiss. His hand burned a trail from her knee all the way up to her ribs, where he stopped long enough to unwrap the towel, revealing the damp chemise clinging to her skin underneath.

Abigail's hips rocked against his, the delicious friction of his hardness sent her gasping into his mouth. Between Maggie, and then a significantly more informed Max, all of Abigail's puritanical dame school education and whispered gossip about what exactly went on between a man and woman had long been dispelled. The reality of Billy's weight on her, his work-roughened hands searing her skin, his short scruff of a beard now burning against her neck, where he was alternately sucking and nipping at the sensitive skin, was all so much more than she'd imagined. In truth, she hadn't fully believed either Maggie or Max. She didn't think either woman would lie to her, but she also didn't understand how it was possible to feel so much all at once.

When he palmed her breast, working the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, she saw stars. A low chuckle rumbled through his throat, vibrating from his lips against the skin at her neck. Abigail was grasping at his shirt, tugging it free from his belt and trousers. She felt clumsy, stumbling forward toward something she needed but couldn't name.

Abigail's fingers skimmed under his shirt, making contact with the hard planes of muscle from his hips up his stomach. Billy's breath caught in his throat and, damn it all, the muscles twitched and jumped under her light touch. Her hands froze, and then she giggled. "Mr. Manderly, are you ticklish?"

Billy tore himself away with a growl to pull his shirt over his head and toss it aside. He was about to issue a retort reminding her exactly which of them would have the upper hand if she really wanted to start a tickle war, but when he looked back down at her, she was biting her lip, staring up at him with eyes that had gone nearly black.

She frowned and pouted when she saw the stitching Dr. Howell had left behind, only just peeking out from under his belt. She brushed her fingers lightly over it, and his skin and muscles jumped again in response. "It's nothing," he spoke in a rushed whisper. The look on her face said that she didn't believe him, but she was also profoundly distracted by the sight he presented over her. She had seen her male peers at their sports, she had dutifully studied art; the male form was not a mystery to her. Yet, none of it compared to him.

Her fingers danced lower to his belt, and in an instant they were both fumbling with it. He gave up and returned to kissing her and tangling his hands in her hair while she worked his belt free. Following his lead, Abigail ventured her lips along Billy's jawline and down his neck. She smiled and continued trying new things with her lips and teeth and tongue when the hand fisted in her hair tightened and Billy breathed, "Oh, _fuck_."

Billy traced his other hand up her leg, slowly working up the hem of Abigail's chemise. He ducked his head, reluctantly breaking the contact between the sensitive skin at his throat and her increasingly skilled mouth, directing his attentions to her collarbone, pushing the shoulder of her garment off her arm. The maneuver left her exposed for only a moment before his lips captured her nipple. Every new touch and kiss and nip stoked the fire curling from her toes to her most intimate of places.

She raked her nails across the broad expanse of his shoulders and writhed beneath him. The soft keening moans she was making and her soft body rocking into him, that pert, perfect breast enjoying his attention, were more intoxicating than any drink he'd come across. It took every ounce of willpower in his body to restrain himself when all he wanted was to drive into her, claiming her in the most savage way imaginable and finally tasting the parts of her he'd dreamed of since first laying eyes on her.

His hand completed its journey up her leg, teasing at the delicate, wet folds he found. Abigail stiffened and Billy immediately halted, raising his heavy-lidded eyes up to find her wide, uncertain gaze. He lifted himself back up to her, pressing his forehead against hers. "Trust me," his voice was thick. "If you don't like it, I'll stop." _I'll have to throw myself into the fucking ocean_ , Billy acknowledged internally.

After a moment's hesitation - a breath that, for Billy, stretched into eternity - Abigail nodded rapidly and took his mouth in a hard kiss. _Thank Christ_. She broke off with a gasp as he slipped a finger inside her. He watched the swirl of unmasked reactions play across her face in wonder as her mouth quivered and struggled to form some manner of coherent speech. Her hips started rocking against his hand and he continued his ministrations, curling inside her and using the flat of his palm to rub at the sensitive apex of her body.

Abigail couldn't stop reaching for more of him. Everywhere their skin touched sent ripples of pleasure that made her heart stutter and stumble. What he was doing between her legs was nearly unbearable and her body screamed for more. Between that and his lips blazing a path back down her throat, past her collarbone and lower, she felt she was coming apart at the seams. It was too much, yet not enough. She found herself begging, " _Please_ ," though not entirely sure what she was asking for.

As he meandered lower, her fingers found their way back to raking hard through his unfashionably short hair. Billy's free hand ran down her thigh to her calf, before planting a languid kiss inside her thigh. His eyes shifted up to hers. "I dreamt of this."

There was too much blood rushing anywhere but her head. Abigail couldn't quite comprehend anything other than the overwhelming sea of sensation. "What are...oh." Billy's mouth joined his hand, adding to the list of things she didn't know were options until, well, now. Her eyes nearly rolled back into her head, but she couldn't look away. No, she didn't _want_ to look away. Watching him lick and lave between her legs felt downright wanton, but pressure was building somewhere deep inside her and she felt ever closer to that indefinable _more_. Her breath stuttered and she licked her lips when she realized his eyes were on hers. He made a noise somewhere between a moan and a growl that vibrated against her, and then ever so gently slid a second finger inside her.

Abigail arched against the bed, letting out a moan that rose into a soft cry. The new fullness sent her over the edge. His free hand grasped onto her hip, keeping her firmly on his lips even as she rocked against him. A world of sensation exploded through her in waves that left her gasping and crying out. Every curl of his fingers inside her and the press of his lips sent fresh sparks skyrocketing through her body. Muscles she didn't know she had tightened and spasmed of their own accord around Billy's fingers. She was trembling and struggling for breath against the waning ripples that had just shattered her.

In her euphoria, she was dimly aware that Billy had abandoned his post and was trailing light kisses along her jaw with upturned lips. "They didn't tell you about that in lady school?" His voice was raspy and hot against her ear. He was entirely too pleased with himself.

She gave a soft laugh and their lips found each other, deep and slow. She could taste herself on his lips and it made her feel deliciously shameless. The fire was already rekindling - his hands were pushing her shift up and her legs pulled him in closer to feel his hardness working against where his mouth had just been. Abigail stopped touching him long enough to let him pull the garment completely off her. Years of training piped up in a corner of her brain, crowing that she was now fully exposed. She giggled involuntarily at the thought; surely, they had been far more intimate just moments ago.

" _What_ are you laughing about?" Billy attempted to feign seriousness, but he was still all smiles and bright teeth and twinkling blue eyes.

"I...I couldn't explain it if I tried," Abigail erupted into giggles she tried to smother with her hands, but Billy pushed her hands aside, pinning them to the bed and captured her lips with his. He released her and she resumed her eager exploration of the hard lines and cuts of muscle, so foreign to her yet innately familiar.

Her hands finally skimmed at the waist of his breeches, but this time when his skin jumped and his breath hitched, neither of them was laughing. Billy murmured a curse and tore his attention away to nearly rip his half chaps and boots from his legs - no easy feat, as he'd diligently chosen and molded the perfect combination to keep his legs and feet protected even in the worst conditions. From now on, the crew might see him barefoot on deck.

The inconvenient footwear out of the way, Billy returned his attention to Abigail - _Abigail_ , finally, after a chance meeting, letters, months apart, false starts and every carefully constructed barrier, was in his bed. Her hair was spread out like a glossy, dark, curling halo, a sharp contrast from the pale soft skin he'd exposed. Her time in Nassau had given her arms and cheeks a light golden tan, and at just that moment, she was flushed, lips swollen and pink. Gazing down at her, still tasting her on his tongue, Billy considered for perhaps the hundredth time since he started kissing her that if this was a dream, he'd kill whomever had the misfortune to wake him up. No, she was too bright, too sweet, too soft and at turns too hard. In none of his dreams had they ever laughed together like this, and his mind had certainly never been able to conjure what she might taste like, or how the sweat would bead on her sun-dappled skin, or how she'd lean into his every touch.

No, this was no dream. But he did have designs on the individual who left faded purplish bruises along her ribs.

Abigail's attention drifted lower. Her tongue felt heavy and dry in her mouth and her heart thundered in her ears. She brushed her palm over his now extremely prominent hardness, then grew bolder with a tentative grasp that set him moaning and clenching a fist into the sheets. She pushed him further, stroking him over his trousers, and leaned up to take his earlobe between her teeth, gently nipping and sucking. Every muscle in his body had gone rigid and he muttered a stream of curses; if she kept doing that, he wasn't going to last much longer.

He pulled away just enough to divest himself of the last article of clothing keeping them apart, and was back on her, cradling her face in his hands and taking her mouth with his again. Abigail was rocking her hips against him, moaning low in her throat at the new sensations that threatened to tip her into that shattering abyss Billy had already shown her. Billy ran his hands down the length of her body, one stopped at her hip and with the other he took himself in hand. He had stopped kissing her and was looking at her with a question in his eyes he didn't need to verbalize. She only needed to move her chin ever so slightly up and down. He pressed his forehead to hers and slowly, with more self-control than he knew he possessed, he pushed into her.

Her hands dug into the muscles of his back and she sucked in her breath. This was quite a bit more than what he had done with his fingers. He rocked in and out, each time going a little deeper as her body stretched to accommodate him. She thought she surely must be drawing blood down his back, but she could scarcely breathe, let alone will her hands to release their hold on him. The feeling of him inside her lay somewhere between pleasure and pain, but she didn't want him to stop. She cried out when she felt a sharp cramp and Billy froze over her, his face fell into immediate concern but he was as incapable of speech in that moment as she was.

The pain subsided into a dull ache, masked by the foreign pleasure of fullness as her body adjusted to him. "Are you...are…" his throaty voice stumbled and caught on itself. Abigail answered him by sliding her hands down his torso to his hips and grinding against him, bringing him deeper inside and eliciting a string of expletives. A stroke, then another, and he was fully seated inside her. He stayed like that for a moment, clutching her against him with a hand on her bottom and reveling in the sensation of being buried to the hilt in her. _Her_. It was still not a dream. She was tight and wet and his in the most primal fashion.

Abigail continued rocking her body into his, thrilling in the obvious effect and power she had over him. Their pace increased, near frantic. Every curse and guttural noise conjured from his throat sent a fresh spike of triumph through her and egged her onwards. He dwarfed her, not simply tall but broad and thick with muscle and heavy between her legs. He would have no trouble taking what he wanted, but in this, since the moment he first crashed his lips against hers, he sought permission every step of the way. Every move she made, so much as a muscle twitch, earned an immediate impassioned response.

Right here and now, she held all sway over William Bones Manderly.

She was dragging her teeth against the hollow of his throat when he found his release inside her. His powerful hands brought her as tight to him as possible and feeling him spasming inside her sent her crying out with him. He kept her locked tight to him as his body slowly relaxed, unwilling to part with all the nice feelings that apparently came with having Abigail Ashe wrapped around him.

Conscious of his weight and rapidly depleting energy, Billy eased himself onto his back, taking Abigail with him. He closed his eyes and stroked her hair, her shoulders, her arms, her hips, her bottom, anywhere his hand could lazily wander as he struggled to rein in his labored breathing. He could feel her heart still hammering against his chest. With a gentle sigh, Abigail nestled herself into the crook of his arm, her free hand tracing light patterns across his chest. The sudden loss of her around him was almost painful, but the contented noise she made and the way she fit so neatly against him warmed a feeling in his heart he didn't know he had.

Reason and coherent thought were slowly returning to both of them. Abigail thought she would - should - feel more ashamed; ashamed of what she'd done, ashamed to be with a man to whom she was not married, laid completely bare. But the shame she had been so sure of wasn't coming. Instead, she felt complete and satiated, if a little sore. His breathing grew more steady under her cheek and she found her lips turning up in a faint smile against him.

Ned Lowe muddied the waters of her life by ripping her from one trajectory onto another, and at this very moment she could kiss the awful man. She knew, like all of her school peers knew, that upon reaching her majority, her father would send for her, she'd make the rounds during the social season and then be married off according to whichever match made the most financial profit for all involved parties. It was all hardly a recipe for filling the gaps left behind by her broken little family.

Billy's fingers tilted Abigail's chin until she was shyly looking up at him from under her lashes. The lust-induced haze was fully cleared and now he studied her, his brows knitted in concern. "Are you alright?"

Abigail's eyes sparkled with mischief. Was she alright? After nearly two years of knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt that she would never feel for anyone what she felt for Billy, and now months of this torturous standoff in which he would see her without _seeing_ her, she finally had him in the most tangible and real manner possible, and he was worried that she wasn't alright.

She pushed herself up enough to press an unhurried kiss against his lips. She could feel his heart already speeding up in his chest. "Yes," she smiled and broke the kiss. "I'm fine."

He still looked a shade worried. "I know it hurt. It won't hurt like that again, or, well, it shouldn't."

His concern was endearing. She'd had hushed, illicit conversations with friends who'd gotten married. They had been quick to grimace and hiss with disgust quick words of pain and discomfort and a generally awful experience. Max, on the other hand, had softened to a nearly maternal warmth and gently explained exactly what happened, why it might hurt and exactly how much it didn't have to hurt, especially after the first time. Max also quietly offered her services should "Mr. Bones finally drop the pretense."

"Truly, Abigail," she smiled and spoke with her lilting French accent, "you might be the most powerful woman on all of Nassau."

"And how is that?" Abigail cast a skeptical eye.

"If you let Mr. Bones into your bed, we may never see him again. The Brethren will no longer have their instigator and kingmaker, the resistance will fall apart and you will have handed us all neatly back to English rule."

Abigail had nearly spit out her tea.

Now she lay with him, and she wondered about the dichotomy of the man stroking her hair and checking to make sure she was alright. She knew what he did for the Brethren, in service to a cause to overthrow English law. She had seen first hand what he was capable of. He always seemed so certain she would turn him away, that one day she would finally decide she could no longer bear his presence knowing what he was. With her, though, he was like this; gentle, sweet, considerate.

She could now see what Max had meant. When the man committed himself to something, he committed.

His fingers tangled in her hair and his frowning, concentrated effort to disentangle them without pulling or disturbing her sent her into giggles, which Billy joined in a low, rumbling laugh.

"I didn't finish washing my hair," Abigail explained when the laughter died down. "I must look like something that washed up in a storm."

"We're just going to have to go back to the lagoon and finish the job. As many baths as it takes." Billy's gaze turned heated before his mouth quirked. "You're gonna start looking like a member of the crew if we don't get you cleaned up. I'll have to put you to work."

Abigail's mouth fell open. "You wouldn't dare."

Billy started to argue that he would indeed, if only to see her pretty bottom in boy's breeches running around the deck, but he gave into a wide smile. "You're right, I wouldn't. You had me so distracted, I almost fell out of the rigging on the _Siren_. Hit my head on a boom and damn near knocked myself unconscious. Crew made fun of me for weeks after."

His chest warmed even as her brown eyes bubbled over with giggles. "Oh, it's funny to you is it?" He raised his chin indignantly, but his wide grin betrayed him. Abigail could only nod through her laughter. Flushed and glowing, her lips were still swollen from kissing. Every time he thought he'd seen her at her most beautiful, he saw her again. Billy captured her mouth with his, slow and deep, then pulled back, stroking her cheek with the pad of his thumb.

"I misspoke, earlier."

"What do you mean?" Abigail quirked her head. Most of what had been said between them hours ago was now lost in the foamy sea of delicious pleasure that had finally boiled over.

Billy studied her, carefully considering his next words. "I said I couldn't promise you anything." Her eyes lit with understanding. "That's not true. I love you. I don't know what I can do about that; my name's no good, but I do love you. Shoulda said it a while ago."

A soft smile graced her lips and she ran a hand down his coarsely stubbled jaw. "I know. I knew." Billy visibly relaxed and continued stroking her jaw, her cheeks, her lips, her hair. "I love you."

In a quick movement, he had her laying on top of him, sinking his tongue into her mouth. She moaned as his hands pulled her hips against his. Billy pulled his head back suddenly, eliciting a rather adorable scrunched and confused frown. "Thank God, because you're stuck with me now."

His sky blue eyes twinkled up at her and his humor teased at the corners of his full lips.

Abigail could live with being stuck with Billy Manderly.

* * *

Woodes raised his eyes from the papers laid out before his unscrupulous guests with a glint of amusement. He'd dedicated his life to stopping piracy, but that didn't mean he couldn't appreciate their style.

When in doubt, they would always look for more than what was in front of them. That was a sentiment he could respect.

Sometimes what they were looking for was what he least expected.

"Can you repeat that, Mr. Manderly?" He almost had to bite the insides of his cheeks to keep from grinning at the man seated across from him. Even Eleanor was hiding her face by keeping her attentions out the window. Captain Silver was side-eyeing his first mate with his mouth open. He clamped it shut with a resigned sigh and kept his hands steepled over his chest. They would have words about this later.

"You heard me." Billy cocked an ankle over his knee and nodded pointedly at the documents he'd just been offered. "I'm not asking much."

Woodes pursed his lips and assented. "It'll take a few days to put together, but I don't see why not."

"Well, if that is all Billy has left to say on the matter," Silver shot his friend a long-suffering look, "I believe we're done here."

Before Silver or Billy gathered their carefully negotiated documents, Woodes stayed them with a raised hand. "I don't know about you gentlemen, but I think this all around calls for a drink."

Eleanor set out glasses and a decanter of dark brandy, but let them pour their own drinks after she filled her own glass.

Woodes raised his glass. "To keeping the Spanish off our island, and prosperous unions."

Everyone toasted to that.

Silver let Billy walk next to him through the town center in silence. Billy always trimmed his steps to accommodate Silver's limping gate.

He stopped when Silver stopped, turning to look at his former captain with a confused brow.

"Billy, we left you alone with the girl for three days. What the fuck?"

Despite his size and the violence Silver had seen Billy inflict, the man still managed to blush and shrug like a little boy without actually answering the question.

Silver couldn't fight it. He grinned and clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Good job, mate. Way to make the most out of a negotiation."

* * *

Four weeks passed after Abigail Ashe mysteriously escaped from her imprisonment, conveniently after Governor Rogers and Eleanor Guthrie's visit. Of course, Pierce couldn't pin anything on either of them. Abigail's escape wasn't noticed until well after three bells at the mid watch, hours after his guests had departed, seemingly satisfied with their inspection of her treatment.

It grated on Pierce that he couldn't simply arrest at least the Guthrie woman, who clearly had a hand in Abigail's escape. He couldn't arrest the governor without solid evidence, and the crown was in no hurry to issue any warrants over the matter.

He couldn't even conduct a search of the island for his wayward prisoner. Rogers had gently reminded him of the limits of his authority in Nassau and until the crown declared martial law, he was not responsible for law enforcement on the island.

Pierce had been chided and struck like a wayward child. Oh yes, it grated on him. He refocused his efforts on organizing the militia and remaining colonial naval forces. For the past two weeks, he had the _Antilles_ on roving patrols in the waters around New Providence. Their captures of small pirate sloops had been little consolation for the Brethren prize he'd had in his hands - chained up in his cabin - just a few weeks earlier.

In fact, these little patrols were the only thing going right. His men sent to ambush the Brethren never reported back, but Billy Bones and others he knew to have been part of the crew who walked into jungle had been seen around the town.

It did little to dwell on failures, however. Rather, they were learning opportunities, chances to better one's self and situation. He would not underestimate the Brethren again, not their connections or land fighting prowess, at least.

"Sails!" a voice called from the crow's nest, followed by an instant, seamless flurry of activity. A hand passed the glass to Lieutenant Pierce without having to be told and pointed in the direction the watchman had also pointed.

"She's floundered, Sir," his first mate declared.

Indeed, the ship in his glass was listing badly. Her sails hung limp and useless, a tangle of lines kept them from doing stirring little more than a sad flutter in the wind. The Union Jack flew proud at the stern still, perhaps a bit tattered. It was hard to tell at their distance.

"Could be a pirate trap," the first mate continued.

"If that is a trap," Pierce lowered the glass, "it's the worst trap I've ever seen. They can't have more than 10 guns on that ship, her sails aren't fit and they're carrying enough water, she'll be sunk in hours. They'd be hard-pressed to put up a fight."

His first mate only shrugged and turned to bark out orders to the men. They would approach with caution. He was right - a ship like this could present a number of dangers. Nothing stirred above decks to give any clue as to what happened. The hold could be packed tight with disease-ridden corpses, or a crew of desperate pirates ready to make a stand.

They were also nearly dead center between New Providence and a tiny atoll, and on a strong wind. A ship lying in wait, out of sight, could be on them while they investigated the floundered wreck before they'd have a chance to cut away and mount a defense. He wouldn't admit these risks to the crew, though. They were too used to the loose way of things in the Caribbean. They needed a reminder of the English way. On this boat, he was their captain. He didn't need their suggestions, he needed them to follow orders.

The _Antilles_ came gently alongside the beleaguered ship. It actually looked worse up close. Lines were secured and gangplanks leveled between the two vessels. The first mate lead a small crew across first, clearing the deck. At his, "All clear!" Trent made his way across the rickety, rolling wood, closely followed by the rest of his crew.

"Sir!" a voice called his attention toward the quarterdeck. He shoved his way through the small throng of sailors and found a huddled figure, cowering and trembling near the ladder well. The skirts and size indicated it was a woman, but her clothing was so wretched and a shawl shielded her hair and face from view.

Trent reached a hand out to her shoulder. "Ma'am? Are you alright?"

She was up so quickly Trent nearly dropped to his bottom. The sailors reeled back, hands flew to their respective weapons. She threw the shawl off in a flash of shining dark hair and leveled a cocked pistol in Trent's face, smirking none too prettily.

"Hello, Trent," Abigail ignored the clicks of pistols around them.

Trent raised his hands. The muscles in his jaw were cracking painfully. "Miss Ashe, this is most surprising."

"Is it?" She feigned ignorance, still disinterested in the armed sailors encircling them. "Here I thought you were hoping to see more of me."

Trent huffed and fixed his hat, then straightened his rumpled coat. "I thought you'd be halfway to Cuba, or maybe Saint Augustine by now. I hear Spain is open to English traitors."

A tall figure materialized from the ladder well, pistol drawn and a hand on his sword. The sailors who had accompanied Pierce shifted and turned uncomfortably, unsure of where to point their weapons or the severity of the danger. Pierce's shoulders slumped.

"That's a serious accusation, Lieutenant," Billy said, sidling alongside Abigail. "I ask you to watch your tone around my wife."

Pierce scoffed, then barked a laugh. He gave a mocking bow to the couple with all the flourish of his upbringing. "I believe congratulations are in order! Tell me, was the ceremony conducted by Blackbeard with only pirates as witnesses, or was it a full tribal affair with the Maroons?"

Billy flashed a smile and exchanged an amused glance with Abigail over her shoulder. "Oh, they were at the party, but the ceremony was witnessed by Governor Rogers. Wouldn't want anyone questioning the legality of the proceedings, you understand."

"Is that what all this is about?" Pierce squinted skeptically around the wrecked ship. "You could have sent a letter."

Billy pressed his lips together and whistled. After a beat, shouts sounded from the Antilles, even a few gunshots. Pirates swarmed out of hiding on the listing ship and even Trent's own men whipped their weapons around on each other. Only a handful held a pathetic defense. Abigail involuntarily giggled at Trent's open-mouthed gaping at the unfolding scene.

"Oh, no, Rogers signed a few other documents while he was at it. I'm here to arrest you for the theft of a colonial vessel."

The smaller man blanched. His men were already dropping their weapons and raising their hands. Hardly a shot had been fired. "How the fuck…"

"The deal still stands?" Trent's own first mate cocked his head in question at Billy. "A place on your crew or safe passage back to Nassau?"

"Aye," Billy grinned.

Trent snarled up at him, "After all this shit, every man you've murdered, you took a fucking pardon?"

"A pardon?" Abigail snickered.

"We got something a sight better." Billy clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to send him stumbling. "I got a letter of marque to stop you from making off with this ship." Billy crouched to a knee to get level with Trent's felled figure. "I got another letter authorizing me to use it in defense of colonial interests. The men voted, you're out. I'm now the captain of the _Antilles_ and I'll be taking my ship."

"Gunn!" Billy called. "Secure the men who've surrendered in the hold."

"Aye, Cap'n," Ben Gunn cheerfully replied, already corralling the sailors who wanted no part of the colonial deal.

Trent pushed himself to his feet and raised his pistol at Billy. "I will not have this. You have no authority-"

"Rogers begs to differ," Billy cut him off. He flicked his gaze down to the gun, then back to Pierce's face. "Apparently, you were supposed to leave with the rest of the royal fleet. Committed a little piracy of your own." Billy leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Was it just because you wanted Rogers' house, or because you wanted an excuse to keep my wife chained up in your quarters?"

"You and that whore can go fuck your-"

Billy's fist cracked against Trent's jaw before he could finish that thought. The gun clattered uselessly to the deck and Trent was sent reeling back to his knees. "I told you to watch your mouth."

Billy towered over Trent, his fist still clenched, when Abigail's hand came to rest on his arm. He tore his gaze away and already felt lighter looking down at her face. With the pistol tucked into her belt, ocean-worn skirt and shirt, she almost looked like a member of the crew.

"What do you want to do with him?" Billy asked just loudly enough for Abigail to hear him over the hustle and bustle of the crew getting the _Antilles_ ready to make sail.

Abigail pursed her lips and frowned thoughtfully. "You were advised to arrest him, were you not?"

"Meh," Billy shrugged. "He put up a struggle. Anything can happen out here, Rogers knows that."

Trent's eyes widened and flew between the couple, calmly discussing _not_ arresting him.

Billy turned and cupped Abigail's cheek. "Whatever you want to do, sweetheart. It's up to you."

She stared up at him. On the rolling waves, he was steady and firm. In the weeks that had followed their interlude in the jungle, Billy had cemented himself in her life in more ways than one, in more ways than she had ever dared hope.

They discussed it quietly at first. Billy tentatively broached the subject of whether or not Abigail would like some manner of restitution for the crimes committed against her. She knew what sort of restitution Billy and the Brethren would deliver. The remaining threads of her upbringing balked at the brutality of it, but they were silenced by the overwhelming memories of the repeated violations she'd suffered.

As they lay in bed, he had held her, stroking her hair and pressing his full lips against her forehead. "It's not going to make you feel better, not really. It feels more like...closing a door you don't ever have to open again."

So now she could close this door. She held her chin high over the trembling man who had taken such pleasure in hurting and humiliating her. In his eyes, she saw flashes of Lowe and Vane. With all these sailors about, the two boats were crowded with witnesses who would know Abigail Manderly was not a thing to be taken and used.

"How long did you say this boat has before it sinks?" She blinked innocently up at her husband.

"Half a day," Billy ventured, "maybe a full day before she goes under."

Abigail lowered herself to a crouch, so she could speak to Trent at eye level. "Captain Manderly, have your man fetch some irons." She made the request without looking away from Trent's pale face. "Lieutenant Pierce, I believe you are a danger to yourself. This is for your own good, I'm sure you understand."

Trent was rapidly shaking his head and spitting negatives and denials and promises and anything he could think of that might get him out of the end he already knew was coming. Two sailors appeared and began the process of trussing him up, even as he struggled.

"Wait," Abigail held out her hand. Trent nearly deflated, breathing his gratitude. "Trent, I want you to know," she smiled and his heart lifted. She was a merciful lady, after all, "I want you to know exactly how it feels to be at someone else's mercy. I want you to watch the door and count the seconds, praying for the moment your rescue will come, until you drown in it. Chain him to the desk in the captain's cabin."

Trent blanched, then boiled over, flushing red with anger. "This is piracy! You'll all hang for this!"

Billy pulled a folded parchment from his belt and _thwapped_ Trent's nose with it. "No, mate, this is privateering. You heard the lady," he jerked his chin in the direction of the cabin and his men took up pushing and dragging the nearly feral officer away.

Abigail watched until they were out of sight. Billy watched Abigail in turn. He didn't know if this was the right thing to do, he only knew what had helped quell the rage and fear in him. He waited for the reality to set in. Would she rail against him for leading her down such a dark path? Would she weep that he hadn't taken her off this path?

She looked up at him with clear eyes and a calm expression. "You were right. I'm not sure I feel better, but I feel...I feel like it's over."

They were almost ready to get underway. Billy lead her back over the gangplank to his new ship, before he pulled her into his arms. "I'm sorry I can't offer you anything better."

A laugh bubbled out of her throat. "I'm free, and I'm with you. I couldn't ask for anything more."

He bent to kiss her, but a voice stopped him. "Where are we headin', Bones?" Gunn smirked at them.

"Home," Billy ground out. "And it's Captain, now."

"Right, Captain Bones." Gunn smiled wider.

Gunn was gone, shouting orders before Billy could finish shaking his head and insisting, "No, don't you dare start calling me that!"

"They all call you that." Abigail patted his chest.

The sails unfurled, whipping great swaths of canvas against the wind. Within moments, they were moving and the slowly sinking wreck they'd abandoned Trent to was fading from vision and memory.

Abigail stepped to the starboard rail, facing nothing but open ocean as far as she could see. Billy sidled next to her, wrapping a massive arm lazily around her waist.

"What's next?" Abigail let the breeze cool her face. Sitting on that wrecked boat had been stifling.

Billy's arm tightened and he pulled her closer.

"Let's go home."


End file.
